


A Love Worth Killing For

by SlytherinPride2292



Category: Saw (Movies)
Genre: Car Sex, Drunk Sex, F/M, Lots of future violence and smut, so much sex :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-26 03:34:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30099687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinPride2292/pseuds/SlytherinPride2292
Summary: After ruling her out as a possible murder suspect in his investigation, a budding romance begins between Det. Hoffman and the wayward daughter of a retired police officer. When Jigsaw blackmails Hoffman, Alexis steps into the role as Hoffman's accomplice doing for him what Jill never did for John. Nothing tightens a marriage like making escapable traps for a man dying of cancer.
Relationships: Mark Hoffman/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 3





	1. Detective Hoffman

**Author's Note:**

> I originally had posted this work before with multiple chapters but writing First Person Present POV as I did originally wasn't going to fit the tone I needed in later chapters as well as a name change to my main OFC. This work will be re-uploaded chapter by chapter after I've re-written them in First Person Past Tense POV. Otherwise, the plot is still the same (see the summary above). 
> 
> It's also cross-posted to ffnet if that's your personal cup of tea for multi-chaptered fics. :)

_Disclaimer/1: This story takes place before, during, and after the events of SAW. Some events will have been curtailed or twisted in order to fit my story; however, the original plots and character development written within the SAW films belong to the (awesome) writers. Please don't sue me; I haven't any money._

_Disclaimer/2: Patrick Mayville and his daughter, Alexis Mayville, as well as other supporting OCs are my creation and any resemblance to people in real life are purely coincidental._

_Author's Note: This is a SAW fanfic, so graphic depictions of violence and sex are a given (in my opinion) but I'll put that here just in case someone needs that in-the-face warning._

* * *

I had a fond memory of going to the beach with my parents when I was a kid. I enjoyed building sandcastles, but I never swam in the deep ocean; I only waded around in the shallow area. Dad always tried to encourage me to go a little further, but I refused.

"It's only water…" He laughed as I threw one conniption fit after another. "It's not going to hurt you."

We always left the beach with one more victory in my hat and another failed attempt in his.

Truth be told, I was never afraid of the water. As a kid, I feared what lingered beneath the surface. Much like I wasn't afraid of the dark, but the monsters that stared back at me from pitch-black rooms or scary basements.

"It's only darkness, it's not going to hurt you."

Yeah, Dad. Darkness alone didn't hurt people. Darkness _in_ people hurt people.

This thought occurred to me once more as I sat in a bland white room with only a single door, a long metal table, two chairs, and a large one-way mirror. For the past 30 minutes, my only companion in the interrogation room had been my own reflection, which—despite the reeling events of the past few hours—wasn't looking too bad.

I looked more like my mother than my father.

My father was 52 years old, retired from the police force, but that hadn't stopped him from working. He kept up what used to be a cattle ranch in the country, raising chickens, harvesting eggs—not a bad living after being a cop for 25 years. He married and had his only daughter when he was 21, only retiring three years ago to 'live off the land', as he said. It was a lot of stress marrying young, having a new kid, and being a police officer all in a single bound. His stress compounded when an alleged drunk driver killed my mom.

The driver T-boned my mom's side, going 85 in a 45. She was the only other car on the goddamn road. Police assumed the hit-and-run was drunk as fuck.

When the police came, he was already gone, the only sign he left behind was what had been taken from me as he sped off.

According to Dad, there weren't even any skid marks as the driver never even hit the brake; it was by mere luck that I survived the accident whereas she'd died instantly.

It was some time ago, and Dad didn't miss her as much anymore; he said having me around was as if my mother had never left. It sounded weirder without context.

As I mentioned, I looked a lot like my mother, with the same bright copper shoulder-length hair, forest-green eyes, and I even had the same sarcastic smile when I was pissed off. 'A spitting image,' as Dad would say. My mother and I first truly bonded when she introduced me to Edgar Allan Poe's literary works. We'd spend every weekend just _binging_ every horror movie we could possibly find. When I was 18, I commemorated her memory by getting a tattoo of a raven, a nod to Poe's most memorable poem with the same namesake.

According to Dad, my mom and I even had the same temper: I tended to bury my contempt until it all came out.

'Like a storm,' Dad described it. 'The difference is most storms come and go. Yours stay buried until one day… _boom_.'

It was a very narrow plank I walked between doing what was right and doing what just felt really fucking good in the heat of the moment.

Darkness alone didn't hurt people. Darkness in _people_ hurt people.

The thought occurred to me again as I stared at my reflection, occasionally glancing at the white clock on the wall, noticing that I'd been standing in the room for another 10 minutes without so much as a peep from the other side, staring at my doppelganger that wore the same black camisole and knee-high skirt, and pumps.

I was brought in for questioning by uniformed officers in blue, which didn't surprise me. If I'd come into the situation clueless without any context and saw what _they_ saw, I'd probably be holding me in an interrogation room as well.

I owned and managed a restaurant on 51st street for the past five years, having finally gotten the _Grotto_ off the ground within the first year of running it.

Everything in the _Grotto_ was either black or gold. From the front door, the center and right side of the club held 14 tables, all of which could seat four individuals on expensive, black leather armchairs. The circular glass tabletops were supported by three gold-plated legs which were soldered into a single platform. Gold lights streamed across all four walls, glinting off black, shiny marble floors.

On the left side of the restaurant was a bar: the counters had an ebony glossy finish on the surface, dark oak for the foundation, and two bartenders worked in tandem to service the 10 possible seated patrons.

I kept two security guards around the bar as well as two in the front for security measures because the world is a fucked up place to live in these days.

While I owned and managed the restaurant expenses and fundamentals, I couldn't take credit for how well it all ran. Most of that credit went to my distinguished assistant, Ally.

She was a whiz with numbers and her networking skills were dead-on.

_My_ specialty centered around the technological complexities like managing the online reservations, the menus that popped up on tablets from which the guests ordered, and the general utilities—why I didn't consider getting more into robotics as a teen had always been my father's contemplation when I started in the restaurant owning biz. I still didn't have an answer for him.

My restaurant was normally a source of comfort and a reminder of my success. Tonight, it left a bad aftertaste in my mouth: One of my Regulars got into it with Martin, one of my security guards. Grady was after another drink (as he always demanded) and when Martin tried kicking him out, he got a broken beer bottle stabbed in his neck for his efforts to keep the peace.

I'd just come from my office after hearing the ruckus, taking the gun I always kept stowed in a desk and thanked my overprotective father's insistence to keep one on hand as it became useful to mitigate Grady's threat to hurt anyone else.

However, it turned out 'mitigating' a threat like Grady meant putting a bullet in his thigh, and after he tried shooting me with _his_ gun, another bullet in the chest. He finally went limp and didn't get back up.

After calling 911, the police came, saw me, and I was pulled in for questioning. The sight itself was incriminating.

I wouldn't say that I was the most graceful under pressure but being raised by a cop had its benefits. He'd taught me to think under duress, attack when preservation of life was at stake, and answer the detective's questions, no matter how difficult. I'd promptly given the police open access to my security cameras, and knew they'd see how the whole situation escalated so quickly.

It was the only reason I hadn't called for a lawyer.

At the rate I'd been waiting to talk to _anyone_ , maybe I should have.

My impatience suddenly evaporated as the door finally opened.

My breath hitched when a man walked over the threshold.

He gave me a once-over, taking in my appearance just as I did the same, noticing instantly that he was _just_ my type: raven black hair, piercing blue eyes, stocky but muscular as I could tell even through his suit. He was taller than me by at least a foot: the top of my head would have only reached to the bottom of his chin…He looked all tied and wrapped up in a little bow as he held a folder in one hand, closing the door with the other.

_He's not a lawyer_. I thought knowingly. Everything about his demeanor, his posture and observing gaze just screamed 'cop'.

"Good Evening, Ms. Mayville, I'm Detective Hoffman."

I loved being right.

He was all business, indicating the chair nearest to me.

"I apologize for the long wait. I just have a few questions I'd like to ask, if you'd kindly take a seat for me."

For him, I'd have been willing to do absolutely anything.

My untethered, gutter mind perpetuated an array of dirty scenarios that could have been accomplished just in this room alone, and when the heat rose to my cheeks and neck, I figured he'd have noticed my blush.

I did as I was told and took a seat.

He, however, remained standing, and placed a folder on the table, flipping it open.

Inside were photographs taken by the Crime Scene Investigators—they were Martin, lying face down in a pool of his blood after being stabbed in the neck with the broken beer bottle; and Grady, lying face up, a bullet wound to his thigh and chest.

"If you could answer my questions to clarify any misunderstandings between you and the police department regarding this incident, I'd appreciate it."

"I'm happy to help. I'm familiar with the routine."

"Are you, now."

"Yeah."

He looked at me like I'd been hiding something from him, which was ironic, seeing as how no one in the police department had bothered telling _me_ anything since bringing me in the back of a black-and-white and sitting me in a room to wait for nearly an hour.

Just as well, Hoffman seemed to realize that despite being left in the dark for such a long period of time, I hadn't asked to see my lawyer, or demanded to know why they'd brought me in for questioning in the first place. In fact, compared to most who had been in my position, I may have been one of the calmest.

Most people accused of murder would have been ravenous for information. I was just going for the ride.

"My dad was a cop," I explained.

Hoffman's suspicious gaze softened to a new level of comprehension. This happened a lot when a cop realized they were talking to another cop's daughter. I was raised to understand police customs, the fucked-up schedule they kept, the odd hours of coming home late, and the fucked-up people they had to deal with. I understood the world they lived in, and they always seemed relaxed by it.

"What's your father's name?" He said conversationally, breaking the ice before we delved deeper into a longer hour of discussing the darker stuff.

"Patrick Mayville. He's retired now."

"How does he like it?"

"He's bored," I answered honestly. "Fills a lot of his work time with worry time."

"Is there any reason he should be worried about you?"

"Not at all. I can take care of myself."

This confidence is the sort that had been built from some traumatic childhood shit, being raised by a cop who had nothing apart from his daughter left to care for and was groomed to do what needed to be done to protect others around me from suffering the same fate as, say, Martin…or my mother.

He smiled and when he did, my heart fluttered unexpectedly. I found him even more attractive in that moment.

"Clearly, you can." Hoffman said lowly, more to himself than in my direction, as he placed Grady's picture in front of me—a perfect segue to the hard discussion that was promised to come.

"Do you know either of these men?"

"That's Grady," I answered promptly, pointing to the man, respectively. "The other one is Martin."

"How do you know them?"

"Grady was one of my Regulars. Typically got a little rough when he was drinking. Normally, it took a few of the guards to get him out and go home."

"How well did you know him?"

"He'd been coming to the restaurant for a drink for the last six months. Aside from that, I don't know much else about him."

"How well did you know Martin?"

"Well enough—he had a wife and kid, went to school for shits and giggles, but chose to work for me instead."

"Why's that?" Hoffman sounded genuinely curious.

"He liked the line of work...liked the way I treated him. His words, not mine."

"Did Martin know Grady?"

"Not outside of work, at least. We all knew Grady was a bit of an anarchist—he liked to fuck with people."

"What did that look like?"

"He'd flirt too much with the girls and provoke my staff into clocking him in the face."

"It sounds like he had a real problem with Martin in particular."

"Makes sense. Martin was typically the one who'd be the first to take him out of the restaurant. Grady was an angry drunk, but he didn't come off as extremely hostile."

As if contradicting the point, Hoffman said, "He brought a gun into the restaurant."

"True. But a lot of other people conceal-carry. You don't instantly consider _them_ 'hostile', do you?"

"You don't think it's possible that your security guard's death was premeditated?"

I couldn't help but snort with laughter, "Premeditated? _Him_? No…Grady was always more of a spontaneous asshole than a preemptive one."

He took a moment to flip through the pictures. One of the pictures he placed in front of me was familiar.

"Is this yours?" He asked, back to his business-like routine.

"Yep, sure is." I noticed the gun, recognized it as my own. "Smith and Wesson, nine-millimeter."

"The officers on-scene said you were holding it when they arrived."

"That's because I just finished using it." I quipped with a little smile. "I figured if I'm going to be accused of murder, I better hold onto the weapon." (He looked at me seriously.) "I'm sorry. That was a poor attempt at humor."

Hoffman accepted my apology as if I didn't have to give one. It was as though he found the irony amusing too. For professional reasons, he tried to stay on task.

I didn't know this man well enough to understand his usual interactions with other suspects or witnesses, but I got the impression that he was drawn to me as I was to him.

I caught him looking at the tattoo on my left shoulder of a raven with its spread wings, to the strap of my hot pink bra which was so noticeable in contrast to the black camisole. Originally, I'd worn a white sweater but because Grady's blood decorated my sleeve, I had to hand it over for evidence, something that had once been inconvenient to me. Now, I was sheepishly grateful.

I noticed that Hoffman's gaze lowered from my raven tattoo to my chest never lingering longer than a second. He was discreet, and if it weren't for my keen eye, I'd say I would never have noticed in a thousand years.

There's a reason why no one ever played 'Where's Waldo' with me—I ruined the game in less than a minute.

"Where did you keep the gun?" Hoffman continued the interrogation.

"In my desk."

He said ironically, "The security guards you employ, and the security cameras aren't enough to keep you safe?"

"On a contrary, I feel perfectly safe."

"Then why the gun?"

"It was my dad's preference."

"Was it, now."

"Yeah. It seems that you cop types don't feel safe unless you have your sword and shield tucked under your mattress or in a desk." I teased, and to prove a point, I glanced down to the table where I knew he had his own holstered to the right side of his belt, adding, "Or on you personally."

Hoffman's business-like tone dropped as he said modestly, "That's a fair observation."

"Thank you."

He was back to business in the next second. "Why do you think Grady attacked your security guard?"

"Martin tried kicking him out."

"And that's why he pulled out a gun?"

"Grady didn't pull out a gun until Martin was dead and my other staff started going for him. He was going to shoot his way to the bar to get a drink."

"And that's when you stepped in?"

"I tried to de-escalate the situation at first."

"You shot him. Twice."

"I _did_ warn him before I pulled the trigger."

"You know, most people are unnerved after they shoot someone. You don't seem too bothered by it. Why is that?"

It was the first time since meeting the detective that I felt like I'd been officially placed in interrogation—despite the fact that I'd been informed I was a murder suspect.

I was familiar with the tone since my dad used it on occasion, particularly when he tried to figure out who I was dating.

Just like how a smoker never smelled the smoke on their clothes but a non-smoker could smell that shit a mile away, cops never lost their interrogative nature or heard it in themselves—but civilians, particularly the family, developed an ear for it.

"Why should I be bothered?" I asked coolly. "He killed one of my employees with a broken bottle, pulled out a gun, and when I tried to stop him, he tried to kill _me_ soon after. You saw the security footage."

"Yes, I did. You didn't even hesitate."

"In a situation that's 'kill or be killed', I'm not the 'be killed' type." I leaned forward with a knowing smile. "And I don't think you are either."

Hoffman reclined back in his chair as if trying to figure me out or to process my words as if they were his own.

"You said it was your father's idea to keep a gun in your office."

The conversation switched to Dad, giving me whiplash and I looked at him, startled. "Yeah…"

"Did your father teach you how to shoot?"

"Yeah, he did."

"What about your mother?"

"She learned how to shoot too."

"Your father insists you have a gun at the office. What does your mother think about that?"

"She doesn't. My mother died when I was 12." At the mention of her, my tone fell flat, and my stomach curled uncomfortably as I remembered the car crash.

It was unfortunate when the good memories of our passed loved ones became marred by a single bad one. All I ever saw was the hidden face of a drunk driver.

Hoffman sensed the pain behind my response, so he switched the topic again much to my relief.

"When did you learn how to shoot?"

"Around the same time, give or take."

"Did you go to a gun range?"

"We mostly stayed home on the cattle ranch."

"Did you go practice anywhere else, like at a shooting range?"

I couldn't help but chuckle, "Is this part of the interrogation or are you just trying to get to know me?"

A little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth like he'd been caught. Before he responded, there was a knock on the door, and another man stepped a foot through the doorway, wordlessly waving at Hoffman to come have a word.

Hoffman apologetically excused himself and I looked after him as he left.

He left the pictures on purpose, tempting my curiosity. If I were a malicious woman full of spite and evil, I'd have probably looked at the pictures again to see if the CSI folks had gotten anything that might have implicated me. However, Martin's death was already hovering over my conscience for not doing something sooner and Grady's death had been much too slow for killing one of my employees.

I quickly put the pictures in the folder and slid them to the side, so I didn't have to look at them again.

Who needed reminders when the brain was so good at providing them daily right before bed?

When he returned, Hoffman had a document and pen in hand. This time, the door was left open when he walked over to my place at the table and placed the document in front of me.

"What is this?"

"Your statement." He answered plainly. "Look it over and if you're satisfied, sign at the bottom."

I gave it a once-over—everything I'd told the detective about what happened at my restaurant was accurate to the letter. As instructed, I signed the document and handed it to him.

"What now?"

"You're free to go. I'll have one of the officers take you home."

"Or _you_ can."

He looked at me like I just stepped on his foot. Maybe he was not used to women being so forward with him or he just wasn't expecting a response at all. I'd wager most people in my place were happy to get out of a cop's pathway, no matter if they were guilty or innocent.

I doubted I'd ever see the detective again unless another Grady decided to step in front of my gun, or if my bad habits came back so I figured this was my one shot and I was prepared to give it my all.

As if weighing his options for getting in the car with me, Hoffman said calmly, "As you like. Please follow me."


	2. The Invitation

**Chapter Two: The Invitation**

Not a second ago, I was the one feeling predatorial. Now I felt like the prey as I followed Hoffman out of the interrogation room, through a corridor full of offices filled with other finely dressed detectives and officers in blue. He gestured through a door and I stepped inside, smiling to myself when he moved past me to take a seat at the desk.

It’s _his_ office, I realized.

Another array of dirty scenarios filled my brain for this room too.

_That desk, though…_

The heat returned to my face and neck, and I restlessly fidgeted with my fingers as I sat in the chair opposite of him.

I didn’t enjoy silences, even comfortable ones. At least, I hadn’t found anyone that made me feel comfortable in such quiet.

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked conversationally.

“12 years.” He answered shortly, clicking keys on a desktop computer.

He was finishing paperwork prior to driving me home. I’d drawn the conclusion that once he dropped me off at my house, he would head to his for the night. No question for the subject of this report: he just opened and shut an investigation in less than 24 hours thanks to the security footage of Grady killing Martin, and my hand in Grady’s quick sentencing for Martin’s death and the attempted murder on my own life.

The raids, catapulting witness statements and allocating the DA’s favor for collaring suspects were, by far, the parts of the job that Dad always enjoyed. The paperwork was the real killer.

I stood and moved behind Hoffman to admire the police decorations on the bookshelf behind him.

I hadn’t been in his presence for more than a few hours before invading his space, but he didn’t seem to mind which just gave me the impression that he was just as attracted to me as I was to him. His only reaction was to turn his head in my direction as if minding my proximity before continuing to type up his report.

Beside the bookcase was a corkboard mounted on the wall of newspaper clippings precluding to some of the cases he’d been working on, and a few mentioning him as the decorated officer that nabbed a few do-wrongs that had eluded capture for the past several years.

My attention was first drawn back to the bookcase to a picture of a beautiful woman. She had long, straight black hair, expressive eyes, and her smile was attentive and warm. A part of me tinged with jealousy when I suspected that she might have been a love interest.

Keeping the callousness out of my voice, I casually asked, “Who’s this?”

Hoffman didn’t even have to look in my direction to know what I was referring to. It was the only picture on the bookcase.

“That’s Angelina.”

“Girlfriend?”

Hoffman smiled at the aloofness in my voice and corrected me: “Sister.”

The jealousy—much like my impatience in the interrogation room—was instantly erased.

“What does she do?”

“She’s a freelance photographer—mostly weddings.”

“She’s very attractive.” I smirked at him. “I can see the resemblance.”

He didn’t seem like the easily distracted type, but while in my presence, he didn’t seem so focused on finishing his report. At least half of his attention was drawn to me as I continued perusing the many things on the bookcase.

“Does the mysterious Detective Hoffman have any attachments other than his pretty sister?”

His focus was completely broken as he stopped typing and turned in his swivel chair to look at me pointedly. “If you’re trying for subtlety, Ms. Mayville, I have to say you’re failing miserably at it.”

Without looking at him, I responded, “Whatever gave you the impression that I was subtle?”

“Nothing, now that I think on it.”

“I never saw the point for beating around the bush or trying to be discreet,” I said nonchalantly, picking out a book from the shelf next to Angelina’s picture. “It always seemed like a waste of time for the person being asked and, more importantly, mine. Evidently, it’s not that popular of an opinion.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Some people like women who aren’t afraid to speak their mind.”

“Now, see, that’s an interesting observation. The people who say they like that about me tend to clam up when they’re on the receiving end.”

I put the book back on the shelf, turning to see him watching me with a predatory gaze.

“Alright,” He considered the alternative. “Maybe they’re just afraid of women who don’t shy away from confrontation.”

“Or they prefer us to be submissive and do what we’re told.”

“What kind of men have _you_ been dating?” He joked.

I sat on the edge of the desk, only inches from his hands on the keyboard, and said point-blank, “The kind that don’t understand what kind of woman they’re sleeping with until they realize _they’re_ the ones being fucked and not the other way around.”

I had let it come out as a joke. However, truth be told, I was still bitter from the last breakup. It had been some years ago and while I’d had some flings here and there since then, he’d been the closest to understanding me, to having a real connection until I realized one day that he never understood me at all—only the idea of me. It was hard coming back from that.

Whereas my last serious boyfriend looked at me as though I was an engine that needed to be understood before starting repairs, Hoffman’s gaze was more intrigued. That glint in his eye became ever more present, like he wanted to show me just how unafraid _he_ was to find out what made me tick.

Beneath his cool, calculating façade, I suddenly got the impression that he’d be a lot more dangerous if he weren’t disciplined by the badge. What was the beast really like when it was finally let off its leash? What was he really like on the inside?

And I knew deep down that he had to be thinking the same about me. Suddenly I felt so exposed to him as if I were naked.

My indiscreet mention of fucking left the silence between us thick and heavy and, once again, I became restless under his unfathomable gaze.

I was skillful at understanding people’s emotions and thoughts just by observing microscopic facial expressions and tics, the innate ability to understand another’s vulnerability. ‘An empath’s gift’, Dad called it. But as I met his eyes, I couldn’t say what exactly the detective was thinking, and it unnerved me.

A few more filthy scenarios had popped up in my head, particularly one that involved me being bent over a desk and being fucked by the man who sat so calmly and reserved as we became locked in a power struggle for dominance.

The knock at the door broke the tension as Hoffman and I turned our attention to the doorway where a young petite woman with dark brown curly hair and a sharp chin walked right over the threshold. Her eyes darted between Hoffman and me as if pondering the relationship.

Evidently, he knew her. He gestured between us, a prelude to the introduction: “Detective Kerry, Alexis Mayville. Ms. Mayville, this is Detective Kerry.”

“Mayville, the Restaurant Owner.” Kerry recognized my name and smiled, now being able to place a face with it. “The Grady-Dawes investigation?”

“The same.”

“I thought that was closed.”

“It’s about to be,” Hoffman said confidently.

“Finishing the report, then?” Kerry minded my presence and stepped forward.

I left Hoffman’s bubble to shake her hand.

“Good to meet you,” Kerry said pleasantly. “I saw the security footage—nice shoot.”

“Pleasure’s all mine.”

She smiled at my warped sense of humor. “The Grotto is some place. How long have you owned it?”

“Five years, give or take.”

“It’s beautiful. I hear good things about it.”

“Thank you.”

“Maybe one day, I’ll eventually go.”

“Well, if you do, let me know. Drinks are on me.”

She smiled at my generosity and joked, “Don’t say that too loudly here: You’ll have your work cut out for you if all of Homicide heads over there at once.”

“I doubt it.” And I meant it.

Considering the costs of upkeep, maintenance, alcohol vendors, payroll, and the like, my profit margins weren’t bad. Top shelf booze and great customer service always kept them coming.

“Settle an office bet,” Kerry said amusedly. “Why do you call it the ‘Grotto’?”

“Well, I was going to call it Masque of the Red Death, but the bank wasn’t shooting for it. The ‘Grotto’ was a last-minute change.”

“Oh, you like Edgar Allan Poe, then. Is that the reason for the…” Kerry gestures to her own shoulder to indicate my own with the raven tattoo.

“Well, my mother and I bonded over Edgar Allan Poe, so it’s part of the reason why I got it.”

“What does your mother do?” 

While I found Kerry’s arbitrary entrance to be genuinely enlightening at first, I had a hard time continuing the conversation once it turned to my mother. Having been through this once before already and perhaps also put out after Kerry had interrupted our somewhat sexually charged conversation, Hoffman wasn’t as generous to allow this to continue.

He looked at her expectantly: “What is it, Kerry?”

His business-like tone was back, and while it was hot even while I’d been at the receiving end, it’s just that much sexier, hearing his naturally low voice set in a sort of professional tone, so matter of fact.

“Ballistics came back from the Smith and Wesson just as we expected.” Kerry stated—she had a business-like tone too, apparently. “Nine-millimeter, no shocker there.”

“And Grady’s gun?” Hoffman was typing at his computer again.

“Fingerprints belong to him, but the gun doesn’t. Get this: It was reported stolen two nights ago from a gun emporium five blocks from here. The owner says someone matching Grady’s description came in and took it—didn’t even bother robbing the place, just shouted that he needed a gun for ‘insurance’ reasons.”

Hoffman stopped typing, looking at her incredulously.

Kerry leaned over the desk and said with a secretive smile, “It sounds like Grady was thinking of doing more than just getting a drink. What are the odds that he’d been planning this from the word ‘go’?”

“Grady wasn’t a premeditating guy,” I insisted. “He wouldn’t even remember to bring enough money for a cab to take him back home.”

“You’d change your mind if you saw his apartment.”

Kerry straightened, pulled out a notepad, listing the things she saw when she went over to his place to see how he lived, and handed it for me to read.

But I didn’t have to read it since she listed it off for me: “Nothing but ramen noodles and opened cans of beer for _weeks_. Found a list of names on his refrigerator—yours was at the top.”

“A list for what?” I questioned, although I already knew.

“Martin Dawes was on it too. It got me thinking so I went back and looked at the security footage on the days Grady was thrown out. You always gave the order; Martin always followed it.”

“What are you trying to say?” Hoffman said coolly.

“This wasn’t just a brawl escalating to something more. Toxicology came back: Grady’s tox-levels were so high; it’s amazing he was even conscious when he stepped inside the Grotto. I guess he needed the liquid courage to get the upper hand on Dawes and Ms. Mayville.”

I moved right behind Hoffman to continue perusing the bookcase with idle curiosity, and the words slipped out, “Fat lot of good that did. It just made him sloppy.”

Kerry and Hoffman exchanged unreadable glances.

I didn’t need a play-by-play to understand what Grady was doing with a list on his refrigerator and a stolen gun. He’d planned on killing Martin and me for certain. Anyone else: Fair game.

Getting ejected from my restaurant for the umpteenth time evidently had a lasting effect on the self-entitled asshole.

A ‘kill or be killed’ situation, indeed.

“All things considered,” Kerry sighed with relief, “I guess it’s a good thing you had a gun. Once the custodian out-processes the intake, we’ll return any personal items taken from you.”

“Well, you can keep the sweater; it’s already ruined. Blood doesn’t come out of cashmere—no matter how often you wash it.”

Kerry smiled at me politely before giving Hoffman a dutiful nod, leaving the two of us alone again. I turned around and leaned my back against the bookcase, my hands folded behind me as I watched Hoffman finish the report.

After a few moments, he stood, turning off the computer, and when he turned around, he only seemed to notice then that I had been standing behind him this entire time.

When he was sitting down in his chair, I had enough space to move about in my own little bubble. I could put my arm out and not even touch him. Now that he stood in front of me, I’d barely outstretch my hand before it’d make contact. I tilted my head back a little to meet his eyes. Without doing so—while it’s not a bad view—I’d still have been staring at his chest.

“She seems nice,” I broke the silence between us.

“‘Nice’ is the operative word.”

“Well, she _does_.”

“She makes a good first impression, doesn’t she?” He agreed with me if only to make me smile, and it worked.

“Yeah. Too bad _you_ don’t make much of one.”

He chuckled at my blunt tease, “Ms. Mayville, what you see is what you get.”

“Yeah, but I have a _very_ vivid imagination.”

Before he could come up with a clever response to continue our satisfying back-and-forth, I took a step forward and cut him off, shoving my mouth against his just in the way that I’d been imagining since I’d first laid eyes on him in the interrogation room.

It was by far the fastest I’d gone from meeting a man to kissing him, and as risky as it was, I wasn’t disappointed.

He didn’t even hesitate to reciprocate, his hands lowering to my hips, giving them a little squeeze before pushing me back against the bookcase a little harder than what I’d expected. The little trinkets untethered by bookends rattled at the impact.

A twisting pleasurable discomfort coiled in the pit of my stomach, burrowing deeper and a tingling excitement rippled like waves throughout my body when his tongue took the invitation to slip between my parted lips to find my own.

Evidently, he’d been having the same dirty scenarios flashing through his mind since meeting me too and knowing the effect I had on him was a powerful feeling.

However, I wanted too much too soon, and the thing that separated us from becoming the four-legged beasts started to nag at me for being too forward and moving too fast.

He softly moaned when I sucked on this bottom lip before nipping at him playfully. He had to have felt my hardened nipples between his long-sleeve shirt and my thin camisole. Just hearing his sounds turned me on even more.

I heard that nag again, telling me to slow down. I barely knew him. And he didn’t know me.

Unfortunately for my moral compass and despite the lessons the retired cop had tried to instill in his wayward daughter, self-control wasn’t my strongest forte.

Luckily, Hoffman was more disciplined as he cooled down the heated make-out between us, caressing my jaw and easing the tension into an unexpected tenderness before the kiss naturally broke after which he looked at me as if I’d put him under a spell, realizing how unyielding he’d been compared to the near-stoic as he’d come across in the interrogation room.

I smiled sheepishly—there was some unlocked potential in him, yet.

“A vivid imagination, huh?” He whispered as he put some distance between us.

Lucky, too, since there was another knock on the door. Hoffman glanced over his shoulder as two men stood in the doorway: A black man wearing the typical uniform a street cop might wear; the second was a white man wearing a suit and tie, similar in style to the other detectives.

“Oops,” The latter said with faux embarrassment. “Did we interrupt something?”

Hoffman glanced at me with a knowing look—evidently, this was another long conversation bound to happen. He didn’t sit back down, seeing as he’d finished whatever report he’d been working on, and it looked as though he was making a point to leave.

The suited ‘gentleman’ didn’t hesitate to come inside, holding out a hand as he introduced himself: “Detective Eric Matthews. This here is a friend of mine, Officer Daniel Rigg.”

The black officer waved once he was introduced.

I shook Matthews’ hand: “Alexis Mayville.”

He snapped his fingers, pointing at me with sudden enthusiasm: “Oh! You’re that restaurant owner, right? The one with the dead security guard and the real fucked up drunk guy. Yeah, yeah, hey—good shot, by the way. The guys and I saw the video—It’s lucky he didn’t get a shot in. Two seconds later, you would’ve been _gone_.”

“He stole a gun he didn’t know how to use,” I said flatly. “Seems more like a misfire on his part than luck.”

“Ha, ‘misfire’, I see what you did there,” Matthews snickered.

“What do you want, Eric?” Hoffman asked from behind me, sounding more put out than when Kerry had come along.

Matthews was jovial: “A couple of guys and I are going to get a drink. Trying to get a group together, thought I’d see if you’re down for a round or two.”

“Not tonight. I’m taking her home.” Hoffman’s eyes peered in my direction to indicate me.

“She can come with us!” Matthews exclaimed with zeal, raising his arms. “You bailed out the last four times—don’t think you can use this sexy little thing as an excuse to ditch again. What do you say?”

Hoffman seemed beside himself. I’d wager he was more insulted for Matthews putting me in the middle of this frat boy’s game than anything.

Not even waiting for a response, Matthews said loudly, “We’ll see you there!” And he was out of the hallway, gathering more people with even more zeal than demonstrated before.

Rigg leaned in towards him and said to Hoffman as if offering a bit of support, “Kerry and Tracy are going to be there, man.”

“I can go for a drink,” I settled the lingering decision between the two.

“Ayyyy!” Rigg grinned widely. “Good deal. We’re gonna be at this small bar— real cop-friendly. It’ll be a good time. I’ll see you all in an hour.” He clapped Hoffman on the shoulder with a brotherly gusto and jogged out of the office, catching up to Matthews to give him the good news.

Hoffman offered a way out almost immediately after Rigg left. “I can still take you home if that’s what you prefer.”

“What and miss seeing what you’re like when you’re drunk as a skunk—not a chance.”

“You know, some things _are_ better left to the imagination, Ms. Mayville.”

“That may be, but it’s just really a pleasure to see reality live up to those expectations. And call me ‘Alexis’.”

“You don’t think we’re bound to cross a line at some point tonight?” Even his caution, concern and chivalry were a turn-on.

I moved towards him so that the distance between us was but a shadow of its mere existence. Being that close to him, I could once again smell his cologne, even his sweat. He watched me like a guard dog on alert, his eyes never leaving mine, even if they wanted to, unaware that his breathing was heavier, and that predatory glint was back.

“I’m not afraid to cross a boundary if it means getting what I want.” I said softly.

“You don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?”

“Oh, there’s plenty wrong with it. Impulsivity, self-indulgence, too much of a good thing—all that. Frankly, I just don’t like depriving myself of things that feel good.” I placed my hands on his stomach, sliding them up his chest; his sharp intake followed when I glided my hands back down, lightly digging my nails, getting a feel for what he liked. “Besides…Isn’t it more enjoyable when you don’t ask for permission?”

Maybe saying this to a cop was not the smartest thing when it came to self-preservation because the last word hadn’t fully left my lips before his hand lifted to the back of my head, grabbing the base of my ponytail. He tugged it back, looking down at me with a gaze that made my insides twist with an uncomfortable heat.

“You should be more careful about what you say around me, Alexis.”

“I’ve never really been a fan of warnings.” I said flippantly. “I just end up ignoring most of them anyway.”

“Maybe you should heed this one. Or you’ll end up in the interrogation room again.”

“Sounds more like a promise than a warning. If you’re going to threaten me, you might as well scare me a little, yeah?”

He let go of my hair and looked at me as if he was still trying to figure me out. I wasn’t afraid of a little pain, and his bluffs had only turned me on to a point where I was sure only a midnight pounding would ease the throbbing between my legs.

Matthews’ voice rung out from the hallway, “ _Mark, man, are you coming!”_

“On my way!” Hoffman called back; his gaze never left mine.

As if this was the last time he was going to offer, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want me to take you home?”

“Very.”

He gestured for me to leave the room; when I did, he followed right behind me, locking the door. Matthews had gathered a few more detectives all of whom followed him as if the summer started and all the kids were heading to a beach party.

“What kind of drinking games do cops do when they’re off-duty?” I inquired.

“You’re about to find out.”

Of all the things that had been said—between the interrogation, the uncomfortably hot warnings he’d given me— _this_ was the only thing that made me uncertain about participating in anything promised for the night, knowing that my competitive spirit was in for one hell of a match.


	3. The Ride To The Bar

**Chapter Three: The Ride to The Bar**

* * *

By the time we were out of the station, it was eight o’clock at night.

Hoffman unlocked his car, first opening the passenger door before his own. Once in the car, he rolled down the windows halfway, slipping off his jacket that he’d worn since I’d met him, wearing a long-sleeve underneath, and loosening his tie.

The shirt wasn’t exactly _tight_ on him, but that no less gave me an idea what he’d look like without it. Toned arms, strong back, hard chest.

_Thank god for the rolled down windows._

I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding up until this point.

Without the jacket, it was easier to spot his gun and badge, both of which were still holstered to the right side of his belt. I was surprised to feel equally safe and in danger. I was in a car with a man I barely knew, and he had a gun. Sure, he had a duty to serve and protect. It was no less a thrill, something I didn’t expect when being interested in a cop, but I liked it all the same.

He took a few minutes for himself to turn on the radio, lowering the volume from its original setting, anticipating small talk.

“Detective Matthews, Detective Kerry, Officer Rigg…”

He glanced at me curiously, noticing I’d rattled off the names of the people I’d met today.

“How long have you known them?”

“Long enough.” He started the car, holding the back of my headrest as he drove in reverse to get out of the parking lot.

“Do you think they’re good people?”

“They’re good cops.”

“I’m sure they are, but that’s not what I asked.”

He put the car in ‘drive’, looking at me as he returned coolly, “We all have our demons.”

He didn’t sugar coat anything for me, something that I appreciated and admired. He didn’t confirm nor deny it, but I knew the code.

‘Cops protect cops, honey’, Dad would say—and he’d always say it when he had to answer for his odd behavior such as having to say he was with a cop at an hour even though I knew he was at home with me instead. ‘Cops protect cops.’

“You mentioned your father was retired; he lives on a cattle ranch.” It was his turn to break the tension between us.

“Yeah, he does.”

“What does he do?”

“Not much. He just stays home, feeds chickens…”

“‘Chickens’?”

“Yeah, lots of chickens. We used to keep cattle too, but Dad doesn’t have the energy he used to have to tend to them _and_ the chickens. His back won’t let him.”

“Does he live alone?”

“Why? Do you plan on keeping an old man company? I should give you fair warning: If you give Dad an inch, he’s not gonna let you go.” 

Hoffman cracked a grin at my tease. For a man who seemed so reserved and self-contained, he had a good sense of humor. Maybe that was why Matthews didn’t get reamed for giving him shit.

“He could hire someone to help him with the chickens.” Hoffman passed over my teasing to continue the conversation.

“He says he doesn’t need help.”

“I can respect that.”

“Maybe _you_ can. But for a man who claims he doesn’t need anyone or anything, I keep having to drive my ass over there, and then walk a mile to his house to give him a prescription—all so he can keep saying that he doesn’t need anyone’s help. Stubborn as a mule.”

Hoffman side-glanced at me. “Why do you walk a mile to the house when you’ve already driven there?”

I laughed, mainly because he didn’t understand the context behind it. Finally, when I got my shit together, I explained.

“The house is on a huge-ass hill. You can get the car to the bottom, but unless you have four-wheel drive, you’re not going _anywhere_. It’s like taking it through quicksand—you’re not getting out. Rather than getting the car stuck, getting it towed, owing a few thousand fucking dollars, you’re better off parking it, and walking up the hill, using the grass as a kind of barrier between it and your feet.” I gesticulated upwards to indicate the length of the hill, adding, “It’s a good 20-minute walk, if you hurry. 30-minute walk, if you take your time.”

“How often do you see him?”

“Monthly, at least. Weekly, at most.”

“All for a prescription?”

“It’s for his osteoporosis. I’d rather make the trip than hear him complain about how it took him however many hours to walk up the hill because he’s getting old. And it’s not a bad trip—the drive is mostly country road: snake curves, hills, trees: peaceful.”

Hoffman smiled inwardly. My jaw-flapping about my dad filled the silence as well as his opportunity to get to know me.

“Do you help him take care of the chickens?” He asked with relatively renewed humor.

“No, not since I was a teenager. Even so, he won’t ask for my help, despite it being a real chore for someone in his condition. Like I said…for someone who says they don’t need anyone, he seems like he does, trip included.”

“Or the trip to the pharmacy is a prelude to keeping an eye on his only daughter.” 

For someone who didn’t know anything about me, Hoffman was the first to understand this part of my life all too quickly and that scared the living shit out of me, so much so that I was at a loss for words.

I glanced out the window, staring at the blur of buildings, lights, and other cars that passed by as we continued towards the bar. I tried to take the spotlight off myself and changed the subject.

“Do you get to see Angelina a lot?”

“On occasion,” Hoffman answered lightly. “She stays busy.”

“I imagine you do too, being a detective and all. Does she have any kids?”

“None yet.”

“Does she want any?”

“I’d say she does, but to my knowledge, her focus has been more career-oriented.”

“Do _you_ have any kids?”

Hoffman glanced at me, saying honestly, “None of which I’ve been made aware.” He used that to segue the focus back to me. “You?”

“Nope. And to be fair, I’m probably better off not having any.”

“Why’s that?”

I smiled at him with a hint of embarrassment, “It’s just that I’ve always been more of a ‘dog person’ than a ‘human person’.”

“Fair enough.”

“In fact, I do have a dog, but he stays with my dad. I have a picture of him, hold on…” I took out my cell phone and looked through the pictures, before landing on one. “That’s him: Prince Prospero, our golden Lab. He turns 13 this year. Got him when I was 16 and Dad kept him after I went to college. So, when he’s not filling his time worrying about me—”

“—He’s worrying about the dog,” Hoffman guessed.

“Wow.” A small laugh escaped me. “It’s like you know the pattern or something.”

“That’s right. I’m onto you.”

“So, where’s this bar again?” I asked, looking around.

“Five minutes away.”

“You all come this far out just to drink? Is it a dive bar, or something?”

“‘Or something’.”

I snickered at the joke, but I also questioned why a bunch of cops went out of their way to a seedy little bar to have a few rounds.

My guess was that there weren’t a lot of people at some of these things when the sun was down, so the guy serving alcohol became more attentive to the wallets. People partying it up since the afternoon had already gone to cause damage elsewhere, freeing up tables.

“So…” I crossed my ankles on the floorboard, catching his eyes glancing down at my bare legs and black-polished toes. “Do you care to tell me what exactly I’m getting myself into?”

“You mean to tell me you’re only interested in knowing that now?”

“Hey, don’t question-shame me!”

He shook his head, grinning as I’d officially made him laugh. Not a quiet ‘haha’ or a snicker, but genuinely laugh. And I’m not surprised that it was equally as attractive as the rest of him.

The car parked in front of an obvious bar. There was nothing memorable about the place except for a faded Welcome sign with the prices of shots that were only accurate if one came to this place a decade ago. Hoffman turned the car off. After a pause, he took off his holster and gun off his belt.

He released the magazine, removing the clip, before sliding the empty magazine back in its place. Wordlessly, he leaned past me to open the glove compartment where he stashed the gun and holster, placing the full clip inside the compartment between the driver and passenger seat, locking it in place. It was obvious that he’d done this before—if not ritualistically prior to entering the same bar.

“You’re not worried that someone’s gonna rob the place?” I said poignantly.

“Not at all. Are _you_?”

“I’m just saying…If there’s a chance of that happening, you might need it later to scare them off.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Hoffman responded without missing a beat. “I don’t need a gun in order for me to be intimidating.”

“Is that right?” I challenged.

His eyes stared into mine as though he was prepared to show me just how right he was. In contrast to his gaze, he leaned forward and tenderly pressed his lips against mine. I was all too happy to respond. In mid-kiss, he suddenly squeezed my left thigh. I let out a startling scream, smacking his shoulder out of instinct. He took the punishment with ease, laughing. When my shock dissipated, I laughed too.

He scared me alright—just not in the way I’d expected.


	4. Drink If You've Ever...

**Chapter Four: Drink If You’ve Ever...**

* * *

Hoffman stepped out of the car, rolling up his sleeves as he walked around the hood to my side, opening the door. Just as I stepped out, two more cars slid into their respective parking spots and got out of them.

The people that got out were familiar. Detectives Matthews and Kerry came out of one car; from the another, Officer Rigg, and an attractive black woman with a shoulder-length weave whom I’d never met but assumed to be his wife.

It wasn’t long before everyone greeted everyone else, and I was introduced to them.

Rigg fondly gestured between his attractive companion and me.

“Alexis, this is my wife, Tracy. Tracy, Alexis.” He added as an afterthought to his wife, “She’s the club owner I told you about.”

“Oh!” Tracy said excitedly, taking me aback. “The um…The Grotto Girl!”

Apparently, that was my reputation for the time being. _Oh, sweet sorrow._

“She’s a ringer!” Matthews laughed, stepping past Rigg to get inside.

Tracy sent her husband an annoyed glance—I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it seemed as if she and Matthews weren’t the most compatible friends.

Kerry greeted me with a smile before she followed Matthews inside.

Another car pulled up. Stepping out were two more men. Introductions were executed once again by Rigg between the detectives and me.

“Alexis, this here is Detective Tapp and Detective Sing—they’re partners. Guys—this is Alexis Mayville.”

Once again, I was recognized from the case file as the woman who shot a violent drunk, or the girl that ran the _Grotto_. In retrospect, it wasn’t a bad reputation, per se, since they all seemed taken by it.

At first, I thought Hoffman had already gone inside before I turned to see him walk up behind me. He was more of an observer than the life of the party as Matthews had proven to be. He led me inside, placing his hand on the small of my back as we walked through the door as if staking a claim to me. I didn’t mind it one bit.

There was only one other person in the bar. If grease and oil had a baby, this man would have been the human embodiment of whatever dirty thing that came from that consummation. He huddled with his arms crossed at his own booth, and when I walked in, his eyes trained on me.

Tapp, Sing, Rigg, Tracy, Kerry, and Matthews all sat around a table that held seven. The bartender, a mustached lanky man, wearing a red plaid shirt and tattered jeans, wordlessly took another chair from an empty table and placed it at ours.

Hoffman thanked him for the gesture; the bartender grinned as he joked, “Hey, at this rate, I should just start reserving a table for you guys.”

I sat between Hoffman and Kerry, more inclined to do so since out of the gang, I knew them the best. I peered over my shoulder; the creep was still staring at me.

In a word: _unsettling_.

The bartender spotted me—a new addition to the crew, perhaps—and said happily, “Well, this is awkward, isn’t it?”

The officers grinned like they caught onto the ruse, but I was lost. “I’m sorry?”

“I know what they all drink, but I don’t know yours. What’s your poison, Miss?”

I shrugged, “I drink anything. Surprise me.”

“He’ll surprise you with nothing,” Matthews mumbled.

The bartender smacked him across the head: “I’m not gonna do that to a sweet thing like her.”

“You did that to me!”

“That’s because you’re an asshole,” The bartender responded back immediately, shaking his head.

Tracy said smugly, “I guess he knows you better than you know yourself.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Matthews dismissively waved her away, rubbing his head where the bartender walloped him.

Rigg leaned back before the bartender left and calling out to him quickly, “Nothing too strong, man—we’re gonna do a few rounds before the evening plays out.”

“If she’s a lightweight, that evening is going to end really quick.”

I crossed my arms on the table, looking at Matthews pointedly. “Are you trying to get on my bad side?”

He smirked. “I didn’t realize you had a bad side, Mayville.”

“Keep talking shit and you’ll be the first to see it, Hot Shot.”

“Oooh,” Tapp and Sing were clearly the enablers, seeing as they skipped to do the cafeteria bullshit, drumming the table.

Beside me, Kerry grinned ear-to-ear.

“Easy, girl, easy.” Matthews raised his hands shoulder-width like a small declaration of surrender. “If you’re not careful, we’re going to have a few words.”

“That might be for the best—I don’t want to insult your intelligence.”

Kerry snorted; Rigg smacked Matthews on the arm and wheezed, “Damn! You opened the door, and she came out _swinging_!” He stood up and imitated a baseball player frantically swinging a bat.

“Your mind works fast, Mayville—I admire that.” Matthews grinned widely. “We might just have to get to know each other a little better.”

Hoffman slid an arm around my shoulders. “Sorry, Eric—she’s already spoken for.”

Rigg resounded with a “Damn, that’s cold, brother.”

While Matthews’ retort was directed only at me, Kerry wasn’t as receptive to the remark.

It wasn’t hard to decipher that there was something going on between Matthews and Kerry. Whether the rest of the gang saw it at that time was beyond me, but I couldn’t imagine the detectives not picking up on it.

Whatever their illicit intent, it wasn’t any of my business. I couldn’t have cared less as Hoffman had made it clear that he had a genuine interest in me, even if only to ward off the braying hyenas that enjoyed a good jousting.

The bartender returned with a pitcher of beer for the table, handing everyone a glass, including yours truly, as well as placing eight shots in the center. Mine was bright blue whereas the others resembled an amber, caramel color.

There was a resounding appreciation (“Thanks, Frank”) and I was left wondering what the fuck was in this bright blue shot glass. As if hearing my thoughts spoken aloud, he suddenly appeared between Kerry and me.

“It’s a nice little concoction: Some tequila—”

“—Makes her clothes fall off!” Matthews sung suddenly off-key.

“—Pipe down, you!” Frank chided before continuing, “Coconut rum, Hpnotiq, and cinnamon for flavor. It’s a bit of a specialty.”

I downed the shot in one gulp. It was tangy and sweet like tart candy with a cinnamon aftertaste. Within a hot second, I felt good although the alcohol torqued my jaw.

“Atta girl!” Kerry praised.

“What’d you think?” Frank asked as the rest of the gang downed their shots.

“It was very tangy…” I smacked my lips, adding, “but that was tasty as fuck.”

Frank was pleased, clapping his hands and he offered to pour another round of shots. The pitcher of beer was poured across every glass, including my own. Tapp and Sing took a long drink from their glasses, as did Kerry and Tracy. The others, including Hoffman, paced themselves.

“Let’s say we play a little game, huh,” Matthews offered charismatically.

Tracy was baffled: “We weren’t already playing?”

“Nah, baby. We’ve just started.” Rigg kissed her cheek then looked at his friend. “What kind of fucked-up game have you thought of this time?”

“Hey, it’s PG compared to last week.”

I leaned into Hoffman and whispered, “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“More or less.” He assured.

“We’ve all played it before, but this time, we have a new contender.” Matthews said loudly, standing to his feet. “It starts with ‘Drink if you’ve ever’ and if you’ve done whatever comes after, you’re gonna drink your entire beer. Got it?” He prodded Tracy playfully. “You gotta drink it all in order to stay in the game.”

“Are we allowed to go to the bathroom this time?” Tracy would have been humored if not for the fact that her smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“You’ve got your girls to watch you, so sure, but don’t be throwing up in there!”

Kerry leaned into me, whispering encouragingly, “Girl power!”

“We’ll find out, now, you hear,” Matthews continued, pointing at the women.

I mimicked him in a deep southern drawl, “Ya’ll be careful now, ya hear. We’ll be watchin’ you...You got a pretty mouth, son, maybe we’ll be feelin’ you too.”

Hoffman laughed beside me. Tracy and Kerry turned purple as if trying their hardest not to laugh.

“Okay, Mayville, I see you! I see you!”

My voice returned to normal: “You know, I’m at a huge disadvantage. You’ve all played this game once already.”

“I’d say that puts you at a high vantage point,” Kerry said logically. “I mean, after all, we don’t know anything about _you_.”

“I guess we’re about to learn tonight, aren’t we?” A mischievous grin breached Matthews’ face.

It was a guarantee that we weren’t going to leave without learning more information about each other than we would have liked. It was all in the spirit of the game, and I wasn’t about to let Matthews take my pride in the first round.

There was a small dispute as to who would get the game started first.

“Mayville’s the new addition. I’d say she should,” Matthews said smoothly. “I’m feeling uncharacteristically merciful.”

I smirked at Kerry. “‘Vantage point’, huh?”

She waved her hand promisingly, hoping I’d put him in his place.

“Alright.” I shrugged. “Drink if you’ve ever arrested anyone before.”

“Oh, that’s cheating!” Sing laughed.

“Yeah, that’s not gonna count,” Rigg booed.

“No, it’s fair, it’s fair!” Tracy goaded. “You’d be doing the same thing to us! Now drink!”

Hoffman was the first to drink the entire glass and the rest followed his example. Tracy and I were the only two who didn’t drink. Her wide grin proved that she’d started to genuinely have a good time, thanks to my involvement. She would have always been the odd one out being the only civilian at these gatherings.

“My turn, my turn!” Matthews called. He looked right at me. “Drink if you’ve never arrested anyone before.”

In reverse, Tracy and I drank from our glasses until there was nothing left. A minute later, all the glasses were filled by the pitcher.

“Drink if you were ever caught fucking when you were a teenager,” Kerry said slyly, smirking at Matthews.

Matthews, Rigg, and Hoffman downed another glass.

Rigg snickered, “Mark, man—I gotta know. When and where?”

“Records are sealed,” Hoffman said good-humoredly.

“You can’t just drink and not give—”

However, Matthews was the de facto judge and overruled: “No one needs to divulge any details, guys. It’s the spirit of the game. Just answer the question.”

The glasses were filled once more.

“Drink if you lost your virginity **before** you were 18,” Sing dared.

Everyone, including myself, but Sing downed their glass.

“Holy shit,” Rigg mumbled, rubbing his face. “I didn’t think it was gonna get hard so fast…”

I giggled, “That’s what he said.”

“Oh, she’s got jokes,” Riggs shook his head, but he giggled right along with me.

There was a lull in the game as we waited for Frank to come back to the table with another pitcher of beer. When he did, he warned us all to take it easy, and the glasses were filled once again.

“Drink if…” Tracy pondered for a moment. “Drink if you’ve ever cheated on anyone.”

Shamelessly, Matthews downed his glass, and my suspicions of him and Kerry being an item were confirmed.

Ready to skip that downer, Tapp said readily, “Drink if you’ve ever been skinny dipping in any body of water.”

Kerry and I downed another glass. My face burned bright red when I felt Hoffman’s eyes on me.

Rigg laughed, “Oooh! We got some skinny dippers! How’s it going, Kerry!”

“Screw off…I was only 17.”

“Woooo!” Sing cheered. “She’s a wild one!”

Matthews called for a timeout: “Bathroom break!”

We all took a much-needed trip to the restrooms.

Kerry, Tracy, and I headed to the ladies’ room.

It was not the most impressive room, but probably the cleanest in a dive bar I’d ever seen. We each took a stall.

“We’re going to have to win this time,” Tracy’s voice sounded off from my right. “I’m not going to go home and listen to Daniel give me shit for losing.”

“Well,” Kerry offered from my left, “It’s three against five—I think the odds are in our favor.”

“That means we need to take out Eric.”

“Maybe we need to take out Tapp and Sing too—they’re not losing as much—”

“You’re right—fuck…oh…” Tracy mumbled. “Do any of you have any toilet paper?”

“Yeah.” I undid the ring and handed her a roll.

After a few seconds, she handed it underneath the wall between us, thanking me, and I put it back on the ring.

After pissing like an elephant, I regrouped at the sink, glancing at my appearance in the mirror.

My ponytail was all fucked up, barely holding a few strands, and my makeup was smeared. I used some toilet paper from the stall to wipe beneath my eyes of any abandoned mascara, taking out the scrunchie. My copper waves fell down my shoulders as I slipped the scrunchie on my wrist for safe keeping.

After, I fixed my black camisole of any wrinkles, and aligned the hot pink bra straps with it.

Kerry watched me from her reflection. Off-handedly, she said, “He’s pretty fond of you, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Hoffman. I’ve never seen him so…smitten before.”

“We’ve only just met.”

“Yeah, well…Take it from someone who used to be his partner.” Kerry wiped her hands on a paper towel. “I’ve known him for several years, and I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you. He’s in rare form.”

“Is that good?” I asked curiously.

“For you?” She rubbed my shoulder with a familiarity than what I’d been accustomed to. “Absolutely.”

After she left, I glanced at Tracy for clarification.

“Kerry’s a real touchy-feely person when she’s drunk,” She explained. “We better get back. The boys will think we’ve given up.”

“Not a chance.” She and I walked back to our table.

When we arrived, they were laughing at the good old times. I took my seat beside Hoffman, noticing that my chair was a lot closer to him. When I sat down, his arm fell behind my waist, his hand caressing my hip.

It amazed me how different he acted between being in the office compared to how he was outside of it: it was as if he had two personas; one when he was ‘Detective Hoffman’ and another when he was just ‘Mark Hoffman’. I supposed not having to worry about reporters, lawyers, or work in general really relaxed him.

Matthews thanked Frank for the next pitcher of beers. “How about we change up the game, fellas…and ladies.”

I leaned forward. “By ‘change up’, do you really mean ‘pussy out’?”

Matthews feigned being stabbed in the chest, as well as pulling the knife out, earning a few titters.

“I was going to suggest shots over beer, but if the lady wants to—”

“Fuck off, Matthews.” I pointed at myself. “This ‘lady’ has just been waiting on you.”

Rigg was all giggles, “Shit, boy, she’s really on your case tonight!”

“I know,” Matthews sounded prouder than anything. “It’s going to be no less sweet a victory when she goes down. Everyone, everyone…” He hiccupped. “Since this is the last one before we switch over to the real hard shit, it means we gotta make it count! Raise your beers!”

Everyone raised their glasses.

“Drink…” Matthews was magnanimous, holding up a hand. “Drink if you’ve ever been arrested before in your life.”

I was the only one who drank.


	5. A Punishment, Deserved

**Chapter Five: A Punishment, Deserved**

At a table full of cops (and Tracy), I was the only one who had ever been arrested. I wasn’t surprised to see the shocked expressions on everyone’s faces, minus Matthews, who only grinned because he counted this as some type of victory.

Kerry stared at me: “You’ve been arrested?”

“For what? When were you arrested?” asked Tracy.

“—Whoa, whoa, easy!” Matthews held up his hands; this somehow silenced the tirade of follow-up inquiries. “Remember the rules of the game, huh?”

For most of the night, Matthews was a frat boy. However, he earned my respect for his foot-stomping the rule once again: ‘Answer the question, no details are required’.

I knew the questions were burning in the back of their minds. I didn’t have to see Hoffman’s expression to know that he had the same.

“For what it’s worth, I was arrested only once, and I was 16.” I explained calmly.

“Why were you arrested?” Tracy implored.

I gestured to Hoffman, reiterating his earlier comment, “Records are sealed. Excuse me.”

I left the table, heading to the bathroom, needing an intermission from this jaw-dropping phenomenon that this reveal had become.

My face was on _fire_ from embarrassment alone. I always preferred to hide in the shadows than be in the spotlight. Matthews and I were opposites in that regard, and the attention garnered was mind-numbing.

I hadn’t done anything remotely violent since that arrest (not unless you count killing a man in self-defense), but that’s not to say I hadn’t thought of reverting back to bad habits while I was at my angriest. Slashing a stranger’s tires or chucking a burning bag of shit at a neighbor’s door were miniscule acts I’d done compared to it.

When I was 16, I was getting in trouble left and right and it felt as if I were completely out of control. One day, it got the best of me, that dark impulse. I served my time in Juvie, and I came out wondering if I was really a good person at all.

_‘What’s wrong with me? Am I bad person?’_

It was around that time that my first love turned out to be less than ideal, and Dad tried to give me some fatherly advice.

 _‘You’re not a bad person. You’re just a good person who has bad impulses.’_ Dad would say, reassuring me. ‘ _One day, you’ll find someone who understands that part of you. You’ll know they’re worth it because when the storm passes, they’ll put all your pieces back together, and make you whole again. Just as I do, Alex. Just as I do.’_

I splashed water over my face, erasing what was left of my makeup. Just then, there was a knock on the door.

I called out. “What?”

Hoffman’s voice returned, “Are you alright?”

“Yep.”

I opened the door, leaning against the doorframe with a small smile. He seemed taken back, surprised to see that I wasn’t crying, which maybe would have been a good reaction to being embarrassed, but it has never served me in the past to cry over spilled milk.

He seemed to figure this was the plan. His look of concern became one of amusement, although I was disarmed when he didn’t start interrogating me about the Juvie record.

“What is it?” I asked curiously.

He gestured to the table, “The game’s still going.”

“Is it, really?” I was surprised it hadn’t stopped, considering the pitchers of beer we’d already been through.

Hoffman walked with me back to the table and I sniggered when Matthews dramatically waved at me.

“Heyyy,” He slurred, clapping. “The Grotto Girl _returns_!”

I started to sit back in my chair, but Hoffman grabbed my hips to shift me over to him, so I ended up on his lap.

Quite the 180 change in atmosphere since I’d excused myself.

“We just— _hiccup_ —we just want you to know we don’t care about what happened earlier, you know, allllll…” Matthews waved in no direction, per se. “All water under the bridge...”

Hoffman wrapped his arms around my middle, his chin resting on my shoulder as he chuckled, “Maybe you should drink some water, Eric. You’re not looking too good.”

If I had to guess, they’d started shots and Matthews was failing miserably at ‘Drink, If You’ve Ever’. Following behind were Rigg, Tapp, Sing, then Tracy and Kerry, both of whom looked rather pleased with themselves. Hoffman was tucked somewhere in the middle of the two girls.

“So…” I hazard to ask. “Who’s winning?”

“ _We_ are,” Kerry and Tracy responded simultaneously.

“I didn’t realize it was a battle of the sexes,” Rigg said with a preemptive smirk. “Maybe we should have played poker— _strip_ poker.”

Tracy chided him, “If you just wanted to see me naked, we could’ve stayed home and watched a movie.”

“Hell, yeah, that’s what we should’ve done!” Sing exclaimed. “K-Kerry, Kerry, you should—”

“I’m not getting naked for **any** of you fuckers—piss off,” Kerry said humorously.

“I’d love to see it though,” Tapp joked.

Matthews was smug. “ _I_ have.”

Hoffman kissed my ear, sending shivers down my spine as he whispered, “I’d rather see _you_ naked.”

His hands left my mid-rift to touch my skirt, his fingertips ghosting over my thighs before giving them a suggestive squeeze. News flash: Tipsy Detective Hoffman was a _lot_ more handsy than his sober, self-disciplined alter ego.

Kerry, having watched Hoffman’s little grope fest, grinned secretively as if she’d just proven a point she’d made earlier in the bathroom—in ‘rare form’, indeed.

“One more round!” Matthews shouted. “Frank! _Frank_!”

Frank looked like he was ready to get everyone out. He caught my eye, and I shook my head, knowing what to do.

I moved to get off Hoffman’s lap; he caught me briefly, but I pacified him with a kiss. He returned it eagerly, one hand caressing my jaw while the other grabbed my ass, pulling me closer to him.

“Down, boy.” I whispered.

Frank headed to the table to refill the glass for the creepy guy that was _still_ sitting at the booth, watching the table full of cops with a wary eye.

Matthews started yelling again. “Frank! Hey, Frank! One more round!”

“Hey, hey, hey…” I placed a large cup of water in front of him. “Drink that instead.”

“I don’t want water, I want—”

“Detective Matthews, you drink that or you’re not getting another round of _anything_.”

Matthews looked taken aback by my stern tone, blinking unevenly at me before he turned to look at everyone else incredulously as if he’d been plopped into a Twilight Zone episode. No one tried to counteract my intervention methods. If anything, they were more entertained that this was even occurring.

Resigned, Matthews took a long drink from the glass of water. I filled it up and handed it back to him.

“That looks like water to me, Mayville.”

“That’s because it is. Now, drink it.”

“Mayville, I’m not a fucking kid—”

“Then stop acting like one. After this, Frank is going to get another round. Aren’t you, Frank?”

Frank nodded, returning to the bar counter, “Sure thing!”

Matthews tossed back the water just as before.

Kerry sat with her chin resting in her hand, braced by her elbow on the table. She was clearly amused by whatever possessed Matthews for the moment to do what he was told. Tracy tried like hell to hide her smile, while the others just watched as Matthews looked at me readily, as if asking my permission.

“One more round, now?”

“Last one. Then you’re cut off.” I cautioned. “So, you better make it last.”

Frank sidelined over to me after filling the glasses, and said with a tone of admiration, “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’d done this before.”

“I’m familiar with the routine,” I explained understandably, thinking back to Grady (before he got all stabby with a broken beer bottle).

“Well, I appreciate the help. From one barkeep to another, I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” I lifted my glass, making a toast: “To making bad decisions.”

Everyone raised their glasses, including Hoffman and they echoed, “To making bad decisions.”

Every beer was consumed and that marked the end of an interesting round of ‘Drink If You’ve Ever’ with some of the best fucking cops I’d ever known.

The tab was brought to the table by Frank, and we all started getting out cash and cards to cover the damage. They all started to leave one at a time.

Kerry held up Matthews, getting him to the car to drive him back home.

Tracy held up Rigg, doing the same.

Tapp and Sing discussed who was more sober to drive home, trading keys as if that were going to fix that problem instantly.

Frank came by the table, picking up the glasses. I stood up as Hoffman offered to help. In the meantime, I proffered to go to the car to get it started and to get my purse so I can pay my own way for Frank’s hospitality. He tossed me his keys without a second’s hesitation.

I very carefully walked out the door, taking note of the uneven threshold so as not to stumble and twist a fucking ankle in my pumps. I unlocked the car, getting as far as opening the backseat to get my purse to pay my part of the tab before noticing a tire iron in the floorboard. It seemed so fitting since when I looked at the window across from me, I saw someone else in my reflection: The creepy guy from the bar—oh, joy.

I took the tire iron from the floorboard, straightening and turning around, only to find him standing merely a few feet away.

“Hey, Hot Legs—”

I glared at him. “If you take a step _anywhere_ near me, I’m going to beat the shit out of you.”

“Ooh, she’s confident,” He mocked. “But I think you’re bluffing.”

“Try me.”

“Nah, I’ve been watching you all night.”

“I’ve been watching you too. If you think I won’t hurt you, you’ve got another thing coming.”

“I bet I do.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re _gonna_ fuck me.” He flashed a toothy grin. “Right here. Right now.”

I held the tire iron in a vice-like grip, my knuckles whitening. I damned my nerves from getting so rattled as my hand trembled too noticeably.

He suddenly lunged forward, grabbing my shoulder. It was one giant cluster fuck when he shoved me to the ground, climbing on my back.

I jerked my head back, capping his nose with a reverse headbutt, and his weight was pushed to the side.

When I got back up, my hand was on the tire iron; after, I could only see red.

I swung at him, not knowing where I was hitting, just that I knew I was making contact—especially when I heard a satisfying _crunch_.

There was yelling somewhere around me, but I was sure that was just my would-be rapist. That was until a pair of arms wrapped around mine, restraining my swings so I ended up dropping the tire iron.

“Alexis! Alexis, _that’s enough_!”

My breathing was ragged when I finally realized that it was Hoffman who pulled me off. I pushed him away from me, putting distance between us so I could fully breathe, leaning my back against the car.

“What the hell happened!” Frank shouted, running outside.

“Yeah,” I said breathlessly, glaring at the prick on the ground. “Tell them what happened—more like what _didn’t_ happen, you, raping piece of shit!”

He couldn’t say much of anything, to be fair. His face was fine, but his left shoulder and knee were covered in blood. The ‘crunch’ I heard earlier might have been the tire iron shattering his kneecap, but I wasn’t a fucking doctor.

Hoffman told Frank to call 911.

“W-what do I say?” Frank asked, slightly panicked.

“Tell them you need an ambulance.” Hoffman glanced between Creepy Guy and me for a moment before adding with a knowing tone, “And the police.”

Frank nodded and ran inside the bar to use his own phone to do as he was told.

I started to rake my hand through my hair, pausing when I caught sight of it. Creepy Guy’s blood was _literally_ on my hand. I rubbed my face with other one, felt the hot sting on my skin: I hadn’t even known that I was crying.

Hoffman watched me as if he were doing some type of arithmetic—trying to gauge where my mindset was. He gently took my shoulder and pulled me to the side, a few feet from Creepy Guy, encouraging me to sit on the hood of the car.

“Tell me what happened.”

“He had been staring at me _all_ night,” I said shakily (damn, my nerves). “When I came out to start the car, he followed me out. I saw him in the window.” (I gestured to it indicatively) “I tried warding him off with the tire iron I found in the backseat.”

Hoffman glanced down at the prick, who was both groaning and crying at the same time.

Creepy Guy evidently had been eavesdropping as he shouted painfully, “She tried to kill me!”

“And _you_ tried to rape me. You’re lucky he pulled me off, you _fucking_ asshole!” I snapped furiously.

“Fuck you!”

I moved to get off the car to give him another reason to bitch.

“Hey, hey, Alexis, _hey_ ,” Hoffman sternly restrained me, keeping me on the hood of the car.

Breathlessly, Frank ran back to inform us, “They…They, _fuck_ …” He exhaled deeply before finally managing, “The cops…the cops are on their way.”

He took a full look at the guy and muttered, “Fucking hell…”

I crossed my arms, still shaking, but not from the cold. I’d felt like this once before and not soon after, I was being arrested and sent to Juvie. Hoffman stood in front of me, his hands on my knees as if to keep me from hurting Creepy Guy, observing me with an unfathomable gaze.

“Gawwwd…fuck!” Creepy Guy whined. “S-she broke my goddamn leg!”

Frank put his hands on his hips and with contrived sympathy said, “You’re lucky that’s all she broke—shit. Anyway, 911 is on the way. Shouldn’t be too much longer now.”

“I hope you get the chair, you little bitch—”

Hoffman sighed before he squatted down next to the guy. “What’s your name?”

“Powell…”

“Powell.” His words were too quiet to be heard from where I sat but whatever they were, they left an impression.

Creepy Guy stared at him as if he’d just been slapped in the face with a phonebook, but he no longer goaded me into kicking his face hence forward. Hoffman returned to my side just as the sirens and the ambulance arrived.

The police officers that came were on edge until they saw Hoffman’s badge. They surveyed the prick on the ground before hauling him into the ambulance. Then there was one officer assigned to talk to all of us: Frank, the prick, me, and Hoffman.

I went through the same ordeal with mine and told him that Creepy Guy had been watching me all night, followed me to the car, tried to grab me, and I acted in self-defense. Frank had been keeping tabs on the guy too so—as the law might say—his story corroborated mine, regarding Creepy Guy’s creepiness.

Creepy Guy gave his version of what happened, and I stayed silent through the ordeal, watching Hoffman and the Sergeant, catching some of the discussion between them in bursts.

The Sergeant was uncompromising. “If you ask me, the first two whacks got the man down—the next 20 might be viewed as excessive force.”

Hoffman said coolly, “He’s 6’2. _She’s_ 5’1”. What’s excessive for you might not be excessive for her.”

“That may be, Detective, but she shattered his _knee_ with a tire iron.”

“And he spent the last three hours watching her until he got her alone. What does that sound like to _you_?”

The Sergeant considered this and said disgustedly, “It sounds like premeditated rape to me.” He glanced in my direction. “I guess all things considered, we should be glad nothing happened to her. I’ll swing the report your way.”

Hoffman thanked him.

The ambulance took Creepy Guy to whatever place that treated assholes like him. The police gave us a debrief, telling me to go to the precinct later in the morning to give a statement about Creepy Guy’s ulterior motives so they’d have it on record. Seeing as we were coming from a bar, they also gave us a breathalyzer.

It turned out we were both still legal to drive. When the officers left, I insisted that we go to my place to crash, wash our clothes so that in the morning I could drop him off at work and pick up my car from there. It sounded like a damn good plan. Since I knew the way to my house, I sat in the driver’s seat and he, in the passenger’s, along for the ride.


	6. Not What I Expected

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :) Smutty Smut smut

**Chapter Six: Not What I Expected**

* * *

Hoffman and I had been silent for the better part of the drive owing to what happened earlier, that is until I noticed he’s been sending me some odd glances in my direction.

“Got something on your mind?”

He was aloof. “Why do you ask?”

“It just feels like you have a question you’re dying to ask me.”

“I have one, but I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“I can be the judge of that.”

After a calculating pause, he asked, “What was it?”

“What was what?”

“The reason you were arrested.”

I clicked my tongue, sighing, “I figured that was going to be it.”

“It’s an honest question.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

This wasn’t going to be something he allowed to dissolve into nothing, so I turned the radio down.

“I was 16.” I explained calmly. “Dating this guy for a while, but I was the only one in love. One afternoon, I caught him cheating on me with some cheerleader under the bleachers.”

“What did you do?” He wasn’t judgmental, just standoffishly curious.

“I got him alone in the locker room and beat the shit out of him with a baseball bat. No one was there to pull me off him. I put him in the hospital, almost killed him. I was later caught trespassing on his father’s private property, slashing the tires to his Charger.”

“You did all this when you were 16?”

“Well, _that_ all happened within a couple hours.”

“Why is it that you were never tried as an adult?”

“Remember me telling you that my dad was a cop?”

As expected, this had been enough for Hoffman to get the idea behind the reason why a case of aggravated assault and battery (and just nearly attempted murder), breaking and entering, and destruction of property was talked down from prison time to Juvie.

“It’s the only time I’ve ever been arrested,” I utter sheepishly.

“You mean it’s the only time that you’ve ever been caught.”

He hadn’t seemed put off by it. Granted, if he had something against it, he’d likely have laid it out in front of the Sergeant after I’d beaten the fuck out of Creepy Guy.

“15, in the back of my father’s corvette.”

His arbitrary comment made me laugh: “What?”

“Since we’re spilling secrets from the game. You told me yours; I figured it’s only fair I told you mine.”

It took me a few seconds to realize what he’d meant—‘when’ and ‘where’ details that Rigg had tried to pull out of him about how he lost his virginity. He had seemed especially curious about Hoffman’s so-called sealed records.

“It was at a drive-in movie, wasn’t it?” I said knowingly.

Hoffman held up a hand in resignation; I giggled at his unspoken confession.

* * *

I lived in a cul-de-sac in the best part of town. The restaurant brought in good money, enough to splurge on a safe neighborhood.

All the houses were one story with a large lawn and wrap-around porch, two bedrooms, a full living room, kitchen, and full bathroom. Hoffman stepped out of the car, taking his coat, and his fully loaded gun and holster; I took my purse from the backseat.

He put his arm around my waist as we headed to the front door. Once we’re inside, I locked the two deadbolts.

The front door led into the kitchen and after taking a few steps, the small computer sitting on my kitchen counter—no bigger than my fist—blinked on.

A male mechanical voice demanded, “Access. Code.”

Hoffman was bewildered. “What the fuck—”

“7-7-6-1-23-9,” I listed off effortlessly. “Password: Nevermore.”

“Access Code…accepted. Password…accepted. Hello, Ms. Mayville.”

I responded sweetly, “Hello, Lyle.”

“What the fuck is that?” Hoffman questioned.

“That’s Lyle.” I encouraged him to sit in the living room, but he was more inclined to watch ‘Lyle’ as if he didn’t want to turn his back on it. “He’s an AI bot.”

Hoffman observed him with a morbid curiosity, “Where did you get it?”

Lyle was surly. “I am a ‘him’, not an ‘it’. Do _you_ ‘get it’, sir?”

“Lyle, don’t be rude.” I chastised. “This is Detective Mark Hoffman. He’s a friend.”

“Well, then. A friend of my creator is a friend of mine.”

Hoffman asked curiously, “What happens if Lyle doesn’t accept or hear the right password?”

Without blinking, I replied, “The house self-destructs.”

Hoffman stared at me, raising his eyebrows and I giggled, “I’m kidding! Lyle is programmed to send a 911 distress signal in any case it suspects something is wrong. I did a lot of tinkering with robotics in vocational school. Lyle, here, a labor of love from the past six months.”

Hoffman shook his head, saying, “A woman full of surprises and interesting hobbies.”

Lyle piped up, “I am _not_ a hobby, Detective.”

“Go to sleep, Lyle.” I requested kindly.

“As you wish. Good night, Ms. Mayville.”

“Good night.”

The computer beeped. After, I gestured to the computer apologetically.

“He doesn’t typically get a lot of interaction with others outside of me, doesn’t understand tone of voice, and he can’t detect humor.”

I couldn’t tell if Hoffman was more impressed by the actual technology, or the fact that I was behind it. Either way, he smiled and said, “Is there anything else I should know about you?”

“I can make a strong Long Island if you’re interested.”

He took me up on the offer as I gathered the ingredients from the refrigerator, setting out to make the tea. I dumped a great deal of ice in a blender, starting the machine to blend the liquor together into an amber-looking slushy: one hand on the rig, the other holding the top in place.

Hoffman moved behind me, his hands on my shoulders, sliding down my arms, then to my ribcage, fingers spread, lowering to my hips.

“It’s a family tradition to get drunk while watching movies, you know,” I managed, stifling a moan just as he pressed himself up against me.

Just his touch alone made me feel like I’d lose what little restraint I had left—it wasn’t much to begin with. I needed a distraction, anything.

“There’s a bunch of them in the living room if you want to go ahead and choose one.”

He ran a hand through my hair, slightly pulling it to the side, exposing my neck, and kissing it. He sucked on my earlobe before his naturally low voice uttered, “I’ll just go make myself useful.”

I felt a knowing smirk against my cheek before he left my side.

I couldn’t help but look after him, finding more to like than before. The man liked to tease; it was obvious I’d met my match.

Before I walked into the living room, I turned off the kitchen light and carried the two glasses of homemade Long Island iced tea, placing them on the coffee table in the living room in front of my navy sectional.

He was crouched in front of two five-shelved bookcases, all the movies tightly fit into each shelf.

All I had on the shelves were horror movies. He tossed a DVD cover over to me that had seemingly caught his interest. I caught it before it got away from me.

It was a dark one that not a lot of people were fond of watching—lots of screaming kids being tortured with farming equipment; the cops were smart, but they never caught the killer in the end. It was because of the gritty affects that I enjoyed it personally.

“Do I want to know how it ends?”

“I doubt you’ll get to the ending.”

“Doubt, now?” He teased, sitting on the couch as I moved to put the DVD in the player. “I think I can handle a few prosthetics in red maple syrup.”

“I’m not saying you couldn’t handle the ending. I’m saying you’re probably not going to get that far.”

“Why is that?”

“Because what I’m about to say will distract you.”

Hoffman raised an eyebrow. “And that is?”

As the DVD was inserted in the ejected tray, I said offhandedly, “Horror movies make me horny.”

It was amazing he hadn’t gotten the hell away from me just then. Instead, he just sat back against the couch, taking a sip from the strong Long Island as if I hadn’t said a fucking thing.

Since meeting me, Hoffman had seen me shoot a drunk asshole on security footage, found out I was arrested for aggravated assault and battery as a teenager, basically witnessed me go bat-shit on Creepy Guy with a tire iron, and found out that my unofficial roommate was an AI bot named ‘Lyle’. I was honestly just impressed that he hadn’t said ‘adios’ yet.

I got to my feet by way of holding onto the bookshelf after pushing ‘play’. After, I turned off the lights. The house was dark except for the blue glow illuminating from the TV as the movie started to roll the beginning credits, the music swelling. My shadow fell on Hoffman as he gleamed at me—the glow made his eyes that much brighter, and I grinned when he didn’t seem displaced.

“You’re not what I expected,” He said modestly as I sat down next to him, taking a drink from my tea.

I tilted my head. “What were you expecting?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“Well, whatever it is, I hope you like it.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Because what you see is what you get.”

“With a vivid imagination.” My words were echoed back to me.

The movie unfolded and as it did, I was careful to drink only enough Long Island to make me as tipsy as I was before Creepy Guy ruined my buzz. Hoffman sat beside me, an arm around my shoulder while I tried keeping my hands to myself.

After a few minutes of the credits, I moved to lie down on the couch to get more comfortable. Hoffman joined me, lying behind me on his side as I faced the TV.

20 minutes into the movie and the killing had started up, and so had he.

He kept himself posted as he watched the movie while the other arm was folded over my mid-rift. It wasn’t long before that hand lightly rubbed the hip closest to him through my shirt, lifting it up to touch my skin. His hand slowly moved underneath my camisole, further, up to touch my breasts through my silky bra. I pressed back against him, letting him know I was enjoying myself, and he began teasing my nipple with circular strokes of his thumb.

It was enough to change my breathing. I wiggled my butt, brushing against him intentionally.

The same hand moved back to my hip, gathering handfuls of my skirt until the hem rose above my waist, stealing between my inner thighs.

I’d been dying to know what he was capable of doing with just his hands alone.

As if granting my wish, Hoffman made the bold move to brush his fingers along the center of my lacy black panties. His satisfied moan against my ear when he felt just how much I wanted him made me uncomfortably hot and bothered.

I slid my hand behind my back to his pants to do the same, content to feel his hard bulge growing as I stroked him while I continued watching the movie.

In a minute, his breathing changed too, and I smiled proudly at my small victory.

The sound of his belt buckle clinked, and with a little disruption of movement on the couch later, Hoffman lied back down behind me. His bare chest pressed against my exposed back, his chest hair slightly tickling.

He only wore boxers, and because I’d never been one to deprive myself of tasteful things, I turned on my back to have a look. I wasn’t the slightest bit disappointed.

The moment I laid on my back, he gently pushed my legs apart, moving between them.

“Someone’s up to no good.”

“You’d know that better than anyone now, wouldn’t you, Alexis?”

“Ooh, shots fired.” I teased quietly. “Bad cop came through the door really quick, didn’t he?”

Hoffman took my wrists, pulling me forward. I sat up and raised them over my head; my camisole was the first to go, then my bra, both of which were dropped off to the wayside.

“You haven’t seen my ‘bad cop’,” Hoffman assured.

I lied back down, lifting my ankles to brush against his backside as I whispered, “Maybe I want to.”

A heat spread throughout my body when the predatory glint in his gaze returned, the same he’d had in his office.

“Like what you see, Detective?”

“There’s a lot to like,” He responded softly.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

He took the waistband of my skirt and pulled it down, lifting my legs in unison to pull it off my ankles, so now his boxers and my panties were the only barriers that remained.

The screaming from the movie had become a white noise.

His chest pressed against mine as he kissed me tenderly at first. I returned every one, feeling him slowly grind his hard-on between my legs. In a matter of minutes, my panties were soaked from the dry humping, and he was fully erect through his boxers.

His lips brushed against my ear as he said huskily, “You like that, don’t you? Feeling my cock rub against your hungry little pussy.”

I barely uttered a comprehensible ‘yes’.

My body was on **fire**.

He took off his boxers. His naked cock slid between my thighs, giving me a glimpse of what was to come. The feel of his cockhead massaging my clit through the lacy material was enough to just _nearly_ put me over the edge, and I keened aloud for any type of relief.

“That’s it, baby. Moan for me.”

“God _damn_ it—!” I heard my own moans heightening to desperate whimpers. “Mm!”

“Fuck, I love the way you sound when you need it.”

His dirty words painfully turned me on to a point I needed relief or I was going to combust.

I wrapped my legs around his waist, grabbed his cock in hand and slid my panties to the side with the other. When I lifted my hips, I pushed him inside, sliding him so easily into my wet cunt that I nearly orgasmed just from the feeling alone.

He sank deeper, bearing the rest of his weight on me. He was initially caught off guard, but it didn’t take long before his thrusts became hard and fast, rhythmic; and I fucked him back.

His hands squeezed my tits before slipping behind my back to grab my ass.

A pressure built in my stomach, blooming as my climax approached, writhing in heat and our sweat.

“Fuck, fuck,” I whimpered in need. “ _Fuck_ , I’m so close…!”

I could tell from his sloppy thrusts that he was close too. He chased his fix just as I scrambled for mine.

His hand slipped around my throat, slightly choking and it was exactly what I needed to reach that precipice. When I did, my back arched, my thighs trembled, and I felt every muscle in my body seize.

“That’s it, baby girl,” He groaned, “Just like that…”

I reached up to kiss him, but he snatched my wrists, holding them over my head with one hand while the his other still held my neck, restraining me. He fucked me harder without any hint of relenting. I couldn’t move or get out from beneath him, but this powerless feeling turned me on a lot more than it should have.

It wasn’t long before another orgasm hit me unexpectedly.

He pulled out of me to cum. I climbed to my hands and knees, slapping his hand away, replacing his hand with mine as I jerked him off.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and shoved his cock in my mouth just as he came. I swallowed until there was nothing left, licking my lips.

He was breathless, looking at me while I stood to drink the rest of my tea.

“Lyle!” I called out.

The computer beeped from the kitchen: “Hello, Ms. Mayville. How may I assist?”

“Arm the perimeter, please.”

A few mechanical clicks and beeps later and Lyle responded, “Perimeter…Armed.”

“Thank you.”

Hoffman observed this and asked curiously, “Can he hear you no matter where you are in the house?”

“Essentially. He can sense where I am in the room based on where my voice is.”

“Does it recognize ‘fucking’?”

“Honestly, I’d rather he couldn’t.”

“Aw,” Hoffman teased. “She’s shy.”

“Fuck off,” I returned, smirking at him.

I gathered my clothes and his, putting them in my arms. Hoffman came up from behind me suddenly, picking me up bridal-style. The sudden romantic gesture startled me, and I laughed. Per my instruction, he took a left down the hallway so I could throw the clothes in the washer, then to the bedroom.

“Lyle!” I called out for the last time.

Distant, the AI bot responded, “Hello, Ms. Mayville. How may I assist?”

“Turn off the lights, please!”

“Turning off the lights…”

“Thank you! You can rest for the night!”

“Good night, Ms. Mayville.”

In the bedroom, Hoffman gently placed me down on the bed, sliding under the covers with me.

“Not bad for an impromptu date with all your friends,” I joked, smirking at him.

“You’re not including what happened outside the bar, are you?”

“I was able to kick the shit out of a creep—I’d consider that a damn good day.”

Hoffman cracked a grin. “You’re a very odd woman.”

“Hey, you’re the one attracted to me. What does that make you, huh?”

He moved closer to me, kissing my forehead as he caressed my jaw. That was the only response I received, but it was enough.

I rested my head on his chest. His fingers brushed slowly through my hair, and it wasn’t long before I found myself becoming extremely drowsy.

Between the interrogation room, the alcoholic reindeer games, Creepy Guy, and the amazing fuck, I fell asleep faster than I’d ever slept before.


	7. The Morning Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More smutty smut :- )

**Chapter Seven: The Morning Run**

* * *

Sometime between last night and the following morning, he became ‘Mark’ to me instead of ‘Detective Hoffman’.

I wasn’t used to feeling sore _prior_ to a morning run. I felt it in my hips and inner thighs, small bruises in places where Mark had held me down. That was nothing compared to the state of his back, marked to hell, thanks to my nails: He deserved every scratch.

As I pulled the covers over him, he stirred in his sleep, turning on his side but remained blissfully unaware of my presence. I didn’t plan on waking him up any time soon.

I woke up early in the morning, dressed to head out for my morning run.

In the living room, I cleaned up the remnants of the Long Island ice teas from last night, tossing it in the sink before placing the glasses inside the dish washer.

“Lyle.”

Hearing my voice, the AI beeped on, greeting me with the usual: “Good Morning, Ms. Mayville. How may I assist?”

“I’m going out for my morning run, Lyle.”

“Would you like me to arm the house per your instructions?”

“Please do. Also, Mark is still in bed, so you’ll hear him soon enough.”

_Beep, boop_. “‘Mark’?”

Lyle was smart for an AI bot, but there was still plenty to be done, improvement-wise. He never recognized any other humans beside myself while I was in the house. Six months of wiring and rewiring had brought him into this world as he was, but without the extra oomph he deserved, he was just one talkative security alarm. One day, I promised myself I’d get to upgrading his software with more sensitive recognition.

“Detective Mark Hoffman, yes. He’s still in the house.”

“Detecting other life forms within perimeter…”

“Don’t do that.” I shook my head, smiling. “You know you’re not programmed for it.”

“I detect life forms outside of the perimeters established to alert the police when they enter.”

“That’s right, but you can’t do it when they’ve already been inside the house with me, which is the point I’m making.”

Lyle exuded a whirring noise, the robotic equivalent of a very surly eyeroll. I curved around the counter to stand in front of him, patting his metallic head.

Reluctant but dutiful, Lyle stated, “Nevertheless, I shall secure the perimeter in your absence, Ms. Mayville.”

“Good bot.”

“Thank you, Ms. Mayville.”

* * *

I ran one mile from the cul-de-sac, then one mile back. It was a 30-minute adventure with the same sights, smells, and I always ran into the neighbors who were out at the same time.

One of them was Mr. Lockhart, a businessman who always got the paper before taking his little 4-year-old daughter, Kate, to pre-school on his way to work. He was in the stock market biz, although I was never keen on the details. He was like one of those yuppies from ‘American Psycho’ that hyper fixated on business cards, returned video tapes at an odd hour of the night only to later fuck some hookers while his fiancée mindlessly galled about wedding plans to which he always showed little interest. Obviously, Lockhart wasn’t Christian Bale’s personified serial killer Wall Street guy, but he had a similar lifestyle.

He was sharply dressed, reasonably good-looking with dark brown eyes and hair, tall with healthy skin. He was too busy climbing the promotional ladder to recognize the magnetism he had on women and men alike.

His daughter, Kate, with whom he had from a previous marriage was a sweet thing: shoulder-length blonde hair, bright green eyes. Whereas Lockhart called me ‘Ms. Mayville’, Kate had favorably started calling me ‘Al’. She stuttered, and it was just easier for her to call me ‘Al’ instead of ‘Alexis’.

The other neighbor was Mrs. Dole, who had long since retired. She was 73, but spry as hell. She played professional soccer for 33 years before calling it ‘quits’, saying that she preferred to have more time with her grand kiddos than spending it on the field, ‘kicking balls’. She always sat on her porch, sipping tea and she’d wave at me anytime I passed her house.

The last neighbor lived right next door.

I never talked to him as much as he talked to _me_. I only ever knew him as Drew. I never knew his real name or what his last name was, and frankly, I never cared to.

When I moved into my house, he was the first at my door to welcome me to the neighborhood, and any time I came back from the grocery store, he offered to help me with the groceries. It was a pretext for sex, so I never invited him inside. I suspected he felt like I would one day.

Admittedly, I didn’t know much about him, only enough to know that he wasn’t my type. He was old enough to be my father. Some women liked older men; my personal limit was 5-6 years at the max. I might have gotten past that if it weren’t for the fact that I once heard him yell at a stray dog for barking—for simply being a dog. As I mentioned to Mark earlier, I was a ‘dog person’ more than a ‘human person’; any human who yelled at a dog for being a dog received negative points for being an asshole.

Appearance-wise, he was average and forgettable. I never thought of myself as being shallow, but for me to be any kind of attracted to a person, I needed that spark: that moment where one became ‘gaga’ over someone.

With Mark, the ‘spark’ had hit me like the fireworks finale on the Fourth of July. With Drew, the wind blew out the match in one fell swoop: it just never existed.

It didn’t help that he failed to understand nonverbal social cues; he was the human embodiment of Lyle, minus the intelligence.

On my run, I first passed Lockhart, who stood in a dark blue robe and sandy brown slippers, nodding his head in my direction when we made eye contact. Passing onward, Mrs. Dole was on her porch, and she vivaciously waved at me—I breathlessly waved back at her and continued running until I reached the last mile marker where I turned and headed back.

On my way to the house, Mrs. Dole was still on her porch, and she waved at me—I quickly waved back.

By this time, Lockhart was fully dressed in a slimming black suit with complementing navy-blue shirt and dark gray tie, holding little Kate’s hand to take her to pre-school. Kate excitedly waved at me.

“Did you have a good run, Ms. Mayville?” Lockhart said conversationally, opening the door to his silver Mustang to put Kate in her car seat.

I tried like hell to catch my breath and managed, “…Yeah, you know…the usual…The usual routine.”

I squatted down so his little girl and I were eye-to-eye.

“Hehe, sweaty.” She wiped her hand over my forehead. “Al, why…why do you leave and then come back all sweaty?”

“Ms. Mayville runs and doesn’t stop running until she comes back,” Lockhart explained. “She’s a healthy person.”

“Why—What are you running f-from?”

The answers I’d have given this kid were more philosophical than she would have ever been able to comprehend. Bad dreams, poor diet, my own shadow—who wasn’t running from those things?

“If I tell you, will you keep it a secret?”

She nodded furtively.

I leaned in and whispered loudly so her father could hear as well, “I’m afraid of the wind. I don’t want it to catch me.”

“Wind don’t hurt you! S-silly Al.”

Mr. Lockhart smiled handsomely when Kate erupted into a fit of giggles before he picked her up, gently placing her in the back, buckling her in the car seat. It was that time where he’d have said good-bye, went about his usual day, but he hadn’t. Instead, he turned to me, clasping his hands together and said a little too smoothly, “Ms. Mayville, I feel like you and I have known each other for a while, wouldn’t you agree?”

“We’ve been neighbors for a few years, sure.”

“You still own your restaurant—‘The Grotto’, correct?”

“Of course.” My interest piqued. “Why do you ask?”

“A few of my business associates wanted to get together to discuss the stock. I’m interested in booking your restaurant for a private party. Is that possible?”

“I don’t see why not. How many?”

“There will be 10 of us.” He said coolly. “Maybe more if we agree to allow guests.”

_Allow_. He said the word as if it was unfamiliar to him.

“What day?”

“Tomorrow night.”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “ _Tomorrow_?”

“Is that a problem?”

“Yeah, I’d say it is.”

His eyebrows crinkled together in confusion. “Surely you take last-minute reservations, don’t you?”

“Tables, yes. The whole restaurant—no.”

“You can’t reschedule the others?”

“I can. But I won’t.”

Lockhart stroked his chin thoughtfully, glancing at his watch. He sounded like a car salesman, trying to sell me on a gas guzzler: “I figured it was a little last-minute, but perhaps we can come to a settlement.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll pay for every seat personally. I’ll even reimburse the guests who’ve made reservations.”

I tilted my head, naturally skeptical. “That’s a huge obligation.”

“One of which I am more than prepared to uphold if you can guarantee my guests and I a private party.”

I glanced at Kate in the backseat. She busily played with one of her Barbie dolls, never minding the long conversation taking place between her father and me.

Mr. Lockhart never seemed like someone who would spring this kind of deal on a person last-minute. He was a pragmatist at his sloppiest, trying to impress some of his people at work, continuing to climb the promotional ladder. No cheap fast food dine-in was going to win that crowd’s popularity contest.

Lockhart stole another look at his watch again, frowning. He thrust a hand into the inner pocket of his fancy jacket, pulling out a business card, which he handed to me.

“You need time to think things over, I understand.” He reassured. “In any case, I do hope you consider my offer. You’d be doing me a huge favor, and I’d be greatly indebted to you. If you change your mind, please contact me at your earliest convenience.”

I took the card, glancing at it wordlessly. He nodded politely in my direction with a subtle look of both desperation and acceptance at my nonchalance before getting into his car to take Kate to pre-school.

I couldn’t say I ever expected a business proposition to come from anyone when I went for a run, particularly one from Lockhart himself.

I headed towards the house, not before I heard Drew come out of his own to say ‘hello’.

“Hey, Alexis.”

“Hi, Drew.”

“How are you?”

“Oh, you know: The usual.”

“Nice day, isn’t it?”

“Yep,” I sighed.

“Looks like it might rain.”

“There’s not even a cloud in the sky,” I pointed it out to him.

“Well, weirder things have happened.”

There was no disagreeing with him on that: The evidence was that of Lockhart’s business card in my hand.

Drew walked from his yard over to mine, stumbling over his words, “I-I saw you come home earlier today—last night, er, this morning.”

He meant ‘midnight’ since that was about the time Mark and I arrived at my house.

He was nervous in the ‘I-like-this-woman-but-I’m-socially-awkward’ way, smiling in the same manner.

“You were watching me?”

“Not in a weird way. Just happened to look outside and see a car and stuff, got curious.”

“Why were you up so late?” I asked politely.

I wanted to know why he was staring out the window long enough—at least until midnight—to notice someone parking in my driveway, and if he noticed that I hadn’t been alone.

Drew said shyly, “Couldn’t sleep. I was going to give you a call.”

“You don’t know my number.”

“Well, we could change that.”

Well, I walked right into that one, didn’t I? I was genuinely impressed that he was that smooth—Lockhart could have been rubbing off on him, but I had a hard time imagining the former mixing it up with someone like Drew.

It was time to let him down gently.

“Drew, I think you’re a great neighbor.”

“But you don’t like me that way, huh?” He’d caught on quicker than I’d have assumed, his shoulders drooping in disappointment.

“I don’t, but I’m sure there’s a nice woman out there who will. You just have to be brave and keep looking.”

“I’ve stopped looking since…” Drew trailed off as he continued to stare at me.

It was getting awkward, and even more so, unsettling. Just like Creepy Guy from last night.

“You should _keep_ looking.” I encouraged, hoping he’d get the message without me having to say it outright.

“I guess…Well, uh, I’ll—I’ll see you later, Alexis. Have a good day.” He sharply turned, heading back into his house, closing the door immediately after.

That could have gone a lot worse, right?

* * *

“ _Access. Code_.”

“7-7-6-1-23-9. Password: Nevermore.”

“Access Code…accepted. Password…accepted. Hello, Ms. Mayville.”

“Hello, Lyle.” I turned to lock the door. I was not even halfway inside before my cell phone rang off the hook. I flipped it open: “Ally?”

Ally was my assistant—she was independent, self-sufficient, and more importantly, competent, which was why I never received these phone calls unless something had gone off the rails.

“Alexis, a couple of lawyers are here.” Her natural high-pitch voice sounded higher than usual as it always did when she became frazzled. “They say they need to talk to you about what happened the other night—with Grady and Martin.”

“Okay, um…” I saw something—or rather, someone—in my peripheral and I smiled as Mark moved around the hallway, half-dressed, looking for something. I suspected ‘towels’ for a shower before going into work.

“Alexis? Alexis, are you still there?”

Back to the crisis at hand— “Yeah, I am.”

“What do you want me to do? What should I tell them?”

I put the phone between my ear and shoulder, freeing my hands as I wordlessly led him to the closet in the middle of the hallway, handing him a towel.

He was a man of few words unless someone got him talking. I already have a hard time guessing what he was thinking, but luckily, his body language spoke volumes; the look of curiosity in his eyes as I performed damage control so early in the morning was almost cathartic.

“Listen, just get a business card from them and I’ll call after I’ve finished with the police.”

“‘The police’?” Ally’s frazzled tone switched from its panic to familial concern. “I thought they let you go—”

“They did, but then I got into something last night with some creep at a bar.”

“Oh, are-are you okay, do you need anything?”

“I’m fine. I’ll be in after I finish up at the precinct.”

“What about the…?”

“Like I said, just get a card from the lawyers, and I’ll talk to them when I get a chance.”

Mark took the towel from my hands. I pointed in the direction of the bathroom.

“What if they want to talk to me?”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“What if they don’t like that answer?” Ally was more rattled than usual. Normally, she was a lot more cool-headed than this.

“Then they can talk to _my_ lawyer.”

“Side bar: Do you, in fact, have a lawyer?”

“Not in particular, but I’m sure I can find one. Let me know if they give you any hassle, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you in a bit.”

She hung up, as did I.

“Problem at the restaurant?” Mark assumed.

“No more than usual. A couple of lawyers, friends in hell: that kind of thing.” He gave me a once-over, noticing my jogging clothes, my disarray. “I went out for a run.”

“How was it?”

I thought back to the conversations between Lockhart and Drew, responding cryptically, “Full of propositions and general awkwardness.”

“Sounds eventful.”

“Not in the slightest.”

I started to leave the hallway so he could take a shower in peace, but I was stopped in place when he took my forearm, pulling me to him, pressing my back against the wall.

A familiar heat rushed all throughout my body; I couldn’t truly explain why. At least, not then.

I was not the submissive type. I was a lot more confrontational and argumentative than the average woman, but it was a damn guilty pleasure to be literally backed against the wall, pinned between it and him.

Maybe that was what he liked, Mark’s kink. Maybe that’s what attracted him to me in the first place. He was a cop who liked to be in control, someone who preferred his women to be mostly fight instead of flight, more about power than submission, and wiles than shyness. He liked to tame her without taking the fight out of her so he can have something to—

“Stop trying to guess what I’m thinking,” Mark said lowly.

I smiled guiltily, looking up, “Why do you think I’m trying to guess what you’re thinking?”

“Isn’t that what you do?”

“I thought that’s what _you_ do, Detective.”

“You manage a restaurant: Knowing how and what people think, and feel is your lifeblood.”

“And what’s yours?” I responded softly. “You try to guess what killers will do next. I figure you’ve been trying to psychoanalyze me this entire time—trying to figure me out.”

“I don’t need to try. You make it too easy.”

“Do I?”

“You’re an open book, Alexis.”

“And you’re a brick wall.”

“I thought you’d like the challenge.” Mark grinned at me—he was not the only one enjoying our little back-and-forth, and I had to say, it was refreshing to have someone who thought just as quickly as me.

“Maybe I do.”

In a matter of minutes, I felt like I might lose control of my self-restraint. I wanted him just as badly as I did last night.

I never blamed the alcohol for making things go too fast—I truly enjoyed myself, but there was a part of me that believed that our chemistry was incited through a common… _something_. It manifested from being interrogated by this man, a night full of drinking with his friends, the violence from kicking Creepy Guy’s ass for trying to rape me, the horror movie that played out on the big screen while he fucked me harder than I’d ever been fucked in my life.

All of that seemed like a one-time thing. I was trying like hell not to get too emotionally attached to a man who saw my darkness too quickly, yet still readily chose to sleep with me.

All of this seemed too good to be true, particularly with someone like Mark, who was more moral bound than I.

A part of me, deep in my chest and in my stomach, wilted at that thought; a surge of panic I knew all too well filled me with dread.

_What was this, really, between us?_

My mind had incited an array of emotions that I couldn’t possibly hide from this man, mainly because I’d never been good at hiding my emotions—it’s what made me a terrible goddamn liar (at least to the people who knew me). In that aspect, Mark and I were completely different; he could tell what I was thinking because I couldn’t hide it; I couldn’t tell what he was thinking because he _chose_ to hide it.

In a matter of minutes, I already expected the whole ‘this was fun, but we shouldn’t take this any further because you’re a real fucked-up mess’ kind of conversation that I’d lived through one too many times.

I knew it would be hard to lose him, this: The way he looked at me each time we were finally alone—never certain if he wanted to fuck me or arrest me. This kind of heat was not something I wanted just once a month, or a few times a week.

I wanted him for as long as I could have him, hoping I wouldn’t scare him away like all the others.

However, this dread was instantly erased when he kissed me. Suddenly, and hard. Any doubt I had of our chemistry and mutual attraction was put to rest when he caressed my face with one hand, entangling the other through my hair.

I was sweaty from the run, but that didn’t seem faze his appetite in the slightest.

“If we take this much further…you’re going…to be late,” I mumbled between kisses.

“Then we better multi-task.”

“Smart thinking.”

I took a towel from the hallway closet, grabbing his hand to pull him into the bathroom with me. What was meant to be a 10-minute shower turned into a 45-minute endeavor in the instant his hands were all over my body.

He grabbed my ass, pressing my back against the cold shower wall, hiking my leg up around his waist so he could grind his girth against my cunt, teasing me like he did last night. His satisfied moans and his cock sliding inside as deep as he could possibly go made me needy. I was already so close to coming before he even started.

Every thrust was a small push to my climax. My nails dug into his biceps as he kissed my neck with his tongue, tasting the water, and sweat from my skin.

I wrapped my arms around his neck, bringing him closer, feeling his chest press against mine. He moved deeper inside my cunt, sending small electric shocks through every muscle in my body; his grunts and moans echoed my own.

“Fuck,” He groaned. “Fuck, you feel so good—”

I cut him off, kissing him, nipping his bottom lip, hoping I could egg him on to fuck me harder.

And it worked. As he did, his hand went to my throat just like before.

His fingers added pressure only to my carotids so I could still breathe, cutting off any circulation. I was suffocating without truly being suffocated.

He must not have known he’d done this to me once already—we’d both been drunk, not thinking all that clearly.

This time, as if realizing what he was doing, he hesitated, lowering his hand. He’d done this before to someone else, but I’d say that someone thought he went too far.

I returned his hand to my neck and reassured him, “It’s okay, I like it—”

Mark looked at me at first like he might have misheard me. He knew he hadn’t—not when I was urging him, begging, for him to fuck me harder, asking to be punished and taught a lesson. He pulled out of me long enough to whirl me around. The tile of the wall was like a sheet of ice when I was shoved against it.

He took a handful of my hair, tugging on it so my neck craned back, and contrary to his rough gesture, he whispered gently, “Is that what you really want, Alexis? Huh?”

His other hand was around my neck again. My arms were free. My legs were free. I could physically move from him if I wanted to, if I felt scared, but I never tried, because I wasn’t.

He pulled my hair back, hard enough that I winced, but I grinned raucously. I couldn’t help it.

The water flying from the faucet above was scorching hot but was nothing compared to the heat that had infected my mind.

I wanted more.

I tore his hands from my hair and my neck, pushing him against the wall just as he did to me; he looked surprised for only a second, mainly because I’d turned the tables on him. I was quicker and stronger than I appeared. He smiled knowingly.

“You like the way it feels, don’t you?” I could feel the vibration of his deep voice in my own chest.

“The way what feels…?”

“Brutality.”

I tried to deny it. But he could hear the pleasure in my voice.

“You liked it then when you were 16; the way it felt when you put down Grady, what it felt like back at the bar—”

I clicked my tongue, pointing at him. “So, you _have_ been psychoanalyzing me.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“It’s not a confession either.”

“Who are you, really?”

It wasn’t a question I was expecting, but one for which I already had an answer.

“That’s just something you’ll have to find out for yourself.” 

I caressed his face, pulling him closer, kissing him with an intentional tenderness so he could choose to push it a little further or let it simmer. He reciprocated with a softness that felt almost foreign. With time, it became much more passionate as he pushed me up against the shower wall all over again.

I knew I was not a good influence on him. I wasn’t good for him at all. I was everything he was not—self-indulgent, impulsive. Somehow, I’d gotten under his skin just as he dug himself underneath mine. His unbridled loss of his own discipline revealed that I brought out his recklessness, all in such a short period of time.

I wanted to believe I was everything he was looking for, someone who wasn’t afraid of who he truly was, of what hid beneath the mask.

His hand returned to my throat, holding me in place, jarring me out of my reverie. He didn’t stop fucking me until I came so hard, my screams were silent as my entire body seized in Earth-shattering euphoria.

He buried himself, coming inside me. He quietly groaned in my ear, squeezing my hips.

“You’re incredible.” His words were like a soft caress.

“Ditto.”

He snickered at my casual response.

“So much for multi-tasking,” I giggled.

We went through the process of getting washed up, drying off as we each were caught sneaking glances in the other’s direction. I left for the bedroom to find new clothes while he followed to fetch the newly cleaned suit I’d laid out on the bed.

A phone rang in the living room; I was not sure if was his or mine. Wearing only my bra and underwear, I momentarily left to fetch one of them—I came back, tossing Mark his own.

He was already dressed from head to toe, minus socks, and shoes. He was a lightning fast one while I was still in the process of gathering my skirt and finding a blouse.

He flipped open the phone and answered, “Hoffman.”

He watched me slip on my skirt and pull a white blouse over my head.

His business-like tone from the office was back. Now I just wanted to fuck him all over again.

“What is it?” He sat on the edge of the bed, more focused, and from the one-sided conversation, it sounded like I wasn’t the only one who had unannounced visitors waiting for them at work. “I’ll be there in a few, just tell them to wait.”

I mouthed the word, “Lawyers?”

He shook his head.

I heard my phone ringing this time. I let out an exasperated sigh, heading to the kitchen to fetch it before it stopped.

“Yeah?” I answered quickly.

“Are you here yet?”

“Ally, I told you I’d get there when I get there.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s the lawyers. They won’t leave.”

“Are they doing anything?”

“They really want to talk to you.”

“Did they say what about?”

“Martin,” Ally whispered.

“What about him?” I asked half-heartedly.

“They said…I don’t know, they said something about Martin’s wife. I’m not sure what they want but I think she might want to, I don’t know, press charges or something.”

“She knows that I’m not the one who killed her husband, right? That was Grady, not me. Several witnesses can account for that.” I headed back to the bedroom to finish dressing.

“I don’t know. They just want to talk to you. They won’t tell me anything else.”

“Alright. Tell them to wait then, they can sit in my office.”

“Okay. Alexis?”

“Don’t worry,” I assured softly. “It’s going to be okay. I’ll handle it.”

“They’re saying I might have to testify.”

“Testify to what?”

“I don’t know. Court stuff—I’m not sure. I need you down here.”

“Don’t lose your head, Allison. Okay? I’ll be down there when I can.”

I quickly buttoned my blouse. Mark observed from the sidelines, watching me with the same concern as before prior to the shower.

He had a protective streak, evidently.

At this point, I was irritated with these lawyers. I’d never been fond of people who terrorized entry level workers when they could have been picking on someone their own size.

“If they tell you to talk, tell them you’ll get your own lawyer.”

“Won’t they just call my bluff?”

“They can’t talk to you if you want a lawyer present.”

“I thought that was just the police.”

“Police can’t do it either—it’s a legality-liability issue. Just tell them to wait in my office. Or give them my number, and I’ll talk to them myself.”

“They say they want to talk to you in person.”

“Then they best stop coming for my staff otherwise it’ll become a harassment issue really fucking quick.” It was impossible to keep the venom out of my voice; Ally heard it too.

Okay…” Ally said quietly. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Yeah.”

She hung up. For the second time, I did too.

Mark apparently had business to tend to on his side as well because it didn’t take long for either of us to head out of the door to get to the precinct so he could get to work, I could give my statement, and take my car to the restaurant to figure out what these assholes wanted from me that was so fucking important.

“Lyle, I’m heading to work. You know the routine.”

Mark glanced at the computer expectantly as it beeped, “Of course, Ms. Mayville. Have a good day.”


	8. The Statement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter :)

**Chapter Eight: The Statement**

* * *

Sergeant Melborne, the lead officer who responded to the incident last night, was waiting for me when I came in to give my statement. ‘Excessive force’, he had originally presumed, before Mark pointed out that Creepy Guy was a foot taller than me, more sober, and that made all the difference.

By the time Sgt. Melborne saw me, Homicide Detectives Kerry, Matthews, Tapp, and Sing had, too, arrived. They gathered the idea that something else happened after they’d all gone, seeking more information from Mark.

“Ms. Mayville, I just have a few questions to ask you, if you’d follow me.” Sgt. Melborne said dutifully, taking me aside. Dark brown hair, gray eyes, lanky but toned, he fit perfectly in his uniform. “Just to a room where we can talk.”

“I’m comfortable here.”

“It’s a sensitive issue, Ms. Mayville. If you’d just follow me.”

“Follow you where?”

His dutiful tone became stern. “To the interrogation room.”

“I’m giving you a statement about what happened at the bar,” I said calmly. “You need to put me in an interrogation room for that?”

“Like I said, I just have a few questions.”

“I have one of my own.”

“And that is?”

“Do I need a lawyer?”

Sgt. Melborne frowned. “Not unless you did something wrong. You said you were acting in self-defense.”

“Yeah. He tried to rape me. I just gave him what he deserved.”

Sgt. Melborne looked at me in a whole new light, a shadow of darkness looming in his eyes, staring at me as if I’d just given him reason for what he considered to be ‘motive’.

“You said you acted in ‘self-defense’. That’s probably half-true. But once you got started, you didn’t stop.” He said darkly.

“How much do you weigh, Sergeant?”

He blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“How much do you weigh?”

His laugh was humorless. “You’re not the one asking questions here.”

“Well, I’m not answering them either.”

“Are you refusing to give me your statement, then?”

“No. But you want to talk to me about self-defense. I’m trying to paint a picture for you since seeing it last night obviously didn’t do it any justice. So just answer the question, please? ‘How much do you weigh’?”

Sgt. Melborne’s cheeks burned bright red, flushed with embarrassment. He looked past my shoulder at the detectives who pretended not to be interested in the conversation but failed miserably as they all looked in my direction. Not that I could blame them.

Sgt. Melborne and I stood in the hallway, somewhere between going to an interrogation room and another office. It was easy to hear our conversation if one intentionally listened.

“I’m 200 pounds, last I checked,” He finally answered. “Why does that matter?”

“You’re 200 pounds. Good. How much did the prick—”

“—Mr. Decker—”

“—His name means literally nothing to me, Sergeant. How much did the prick weigh when you booked him?”

“He was 220, according to the—”

“So, here, you have a man who is _your_ height, _your_ weight, _your_ build, and sober, Sergeant. Here’s my statement: I’m 5’1”, 120 pounds, and I was drunk. He caught me outside, alone in the dark, snuck up behind me, and said ‘you’re gonna fuck me’ before he pushed me to the ground; his intentions were pretty clear. But, oh, _you_ don’t consider that reason enough to beat the shit out of him.”

“I see your point, Ms. Mayville. But once he was on the ground, you should have stopped. You broke his knee. You cost him his—”

“—I cost him nothing, but a few hospital bills and, thanks to me, he’ll likely think twice before going after another woman. He’ll be thinking of the beating for years to come, which is more than what I can say for the few months he’ll serve for assaulting me in the parking lot of a fucking dive bar.”

“Ms. Mayville, I’m simply explaining to you that—”

“—You have my statement, verbal or otherwise. You want to interrogate me? You arrest me. Otherwise, I’m going to work.”

I turned around to leave, passing Mark and Detective Kerry, who glanced at each other with unreadable expressions. Sgt. Melborne tried to follow, but both Detective Matthews and Kerry told him to stay put.

I was opening my car door when I felt someone come up behind me. Already on edge, I turned around, ready to sucker punch an asshole.

Mark caught my fist, stunning me.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

I leaned my back against the car, saying irritably, “If you already knew the answer to the question, why the hell did you ask?” I heard the venom in my tone but softened when he appeared genuinely concerned. “I’m sorry for snapping. I just hate feeling like a suspect.”

Mark didn’t say much to that, knowing that between the interrogation about Grady’s untimely demise and now Sgt. Melborne’s, I was entitled to it.

I smiled a little, saying secretively, “You’ve got people watching you.”

He followed my gaze over his shoulder to Detectives Kerry and Matthews watching us from the doorway of the precinct, more intrigued than anything. Maybe they were shocked that what happened last night was more than a one-night stand.

He turned back to me and said quietly, “Let them watch.”

“I feel like you’ve used that line before.”

“And I get the feeling you’ve _heard_ it before.”

“Maybe I have.” I admitted, smirking at him.

His hands rested on my waist as he asked if I was alright again.

“I think Sergeant Melborne suspects I’m guilty of attempted murder, but otherwise—you know—I’m feeling great.”

“Don’t worry about him.”

I knew what that meant. He’d illuminate the fact that I acted in self-defense to overpower my attacker, leaving out the detail that I had to be pulled off Creepy Guy to stop me from killing him.

I didn’t feel guilty for giving Creepy Guy what he deserved, but there was a painful tug on my conscience for getting Mark involved. He was a decorated cop—he wasn’t supposed to be twisting the truth for a better outcome, even at my expense.

The feeling was familiar—my father had done the same for me a few times.

“Everything is going to be fine. They have no reason to question me.”

“They have no reason to suspect a cop, who falls for a possible suspect in his own Homicide investigation?”

He attempted a bit of humor, “Whoever said I was falling for her?”

“Well, it’s not a denial.”

“It’s not a confession either.”

“You and I both know that a lack of confession can be just as damning as a verbal admission of guilt.”

Mark considered my words. “I often forget your father was in law enforcement.”

“Retired, since then. But you know what they say: once a cop, always a cop.”

“Is that a fact?”

“ _Very_ non-fiction.”

“Just like…” He stood closer to me, his voice took on an intimidating edge, “Once a criminal always a criminal?”

I clicked my tongue, “That’s a fine line, Detective.”

“Not from where I’m standing.”

“You are standing on a boulder in the middle of a lava pit: You’re too far away from the edge to see the kind of danger you’re in, yet close enough to see the flames licking the air around you.”

Mark looked down at me, recognizing a challenge when he heard one.

“And where are you in this little metaphor of yours? On the edge with one leg on the boulder and the other in the fire?”

“I _am_ the fire.” I took his hand from my hip and slipped it under my skirt. “I'm just wondering if you're someone who can withstand that kind of heat."

Something in his gaze changed. That calm, cool, collected sense of self flickering away, the sort of darkness he’d buried within himself pulsing if only for a moment as if it tried to escape without his permission.

I placed his hand between my legs and a spark of excitement and adrenaline suddenly surged through my body when his thumb slid against my panties, feeling the warmth of my pussy through the material. It only lasted for a few seconds before that mask recovered. When it did, his hand withdrew from beneath my skirt to rest delicately on my hip, as if he had found his wits about him once again.

“I’ll see you tonight." It was a promise, not a question.

“Ooh, a date?” I teased. “I’m looking forward to it.”

He leaned in and kissed my cheek. I turned my head, so his kiss landed on my lips. In that instant, I was already wanting more. Knowing I couldn’t have him right then just made it that much harder to stop. He eased the beginnings of a heated make-out to one of tenderness just as he had before.

When the kiss naturally broke, he wished me good luck with the lawyers at the restaurant and I headed there to do some major damage control.


End file.
